Switch
by Darkfangz13
Summary: Gregory Lestrade never became a cop. He lives a charmingly mundane life. He runs a diner, lives with his best mate Donovan, is friends with Sherlock Holmes, and occasionally - when he closes down shop - he goes out and kills people for Mycroft Holmes. Most people do not know this about Gregory Lestrade. And he likes it that way.
1. Prologue

A/N: So, hello! Just a bit of an introduction-of-a-prologue, I realize. This is an AU fic (just to get that out there) where Lestrade was never a DI. He owns and runs a diner/cafe... yep. But not Speedy's, as fun as that would be. The story follows the BBC Sherlock storyline with Lestrade taking a different role in the story, but it may deviate otherwise from cannon when - and if - I decide (which, I haven't yet) Also, I don't think the story will really focus on Sherlock and John as I'm sure you've all already watched the series and know exactly what happens. This is a story that dictates the things that you DON'T see on TV. Meaning, you'll see mostly Mycroft, Lestrade, Anthea, and Donovan as the main focus.

And, just a warning to those who are used to regular updates, I am currently stuck in writer's block so (preemptive sorry!) don't panic if the updates turn out totally irregular. I may make you _**wait on a cliffhanger for AGES**_, okay? Just warning you!

Anyway, end of (whatever this long, probably-won't-be-read thing is, thank you patient people!) enjoy!

* * *

><p><span>Switch<span>

Prologue

Down in an inconspicuous niche in Central London there is a small cafe that I own and run myself.

Well, when I say 'cafe' I only mean in name. It started out as a cafe that served food, but now it's more of a diner that serves coffee, which is a pity because my flatmate tells me I make the coffee of gods.

Then again, she says the same thing about my food.

I am an early waker, it's an occupational hazard, really. I wake up at six in the morning and leave my flat, which stands on the second floor of my diner, and begin preparing to open shop.

I tend to start with coffee, both because I am still only half awake, and because I must prepare for my first customer of the day.

She wakes up a few minutes after me unless she gets called out on a case. Her name is Sally Donovan, she's both my flatmate and a detective sergeant of the New Scotland Yard. I've known her since ages ago.

She sounds like she's in a hurry today, probably a case, then... I'd better put her coffee in a disposable cup.

"Morning!" Donovan calls out as she rushes down the stairs in the back of the diner, throwing on a jacket as she goes. "Coming through!"

A hand drifts out leisurely holding a disposable cup of steaming hot liquid caffeine and Donovan just barely manages to snag it.

"Thanks!"

"Good luck today!"

"You too!" And she's gone like a whirlwind.

It's still a good hour before opening time and I am thoroughly busy with preparations when my second customer comes knocking.

Or - well - pawing and scratching.

I open the back door from the kitchen and she is sitting there, prim and expectant, like she does everyday.

It's Tuesday, which means it's tuna day.

"Hey, girl." Her coat of fur is clumped together in some places, I notice as I pet her. And her left ear is a little scratched. "You getting into fights again?"

"Mrrr." is the only response she deigns to give in between mouthfuls of tuna.

"You're hopeless."

I leave her to her food, she'll finish it in her own time. Meanwhile, I have a oven full of breakfast foods that will soon begin to burn if left too long.

"Yoohoo!" an elderly lady calls out.

She's early, by five minutes. No harm in that.

That is Mrs. Hathaway, she lives right across the street, she's been living here since before I built this diner. She always comes over for breakfast, since the passing of her husband and son in a car crash, she can't stand to eat alone at a table for three.

I can't blame her.

"Morning, Mrs. Hathaway!" I call out, "I'll be just another moment!" Because breads coming straight out of the oven is too hot to handle. Since opening up this diner, I think I have become quite the skilled juggler.

I always eat breakfast with Mrs. Hathaway, and Donovan, if she's not rushing about by then. I always try to tell Mrs. Hathaway that breakfast is free, a special just for her, but she won't have any of it, she always manages to pay me monthly by some trick or another.

She loves small talk. Seriously, there is nobody on earth who likes small talk more than Mrs. Hathaway. She is also an avid gossiper, one of the small joys in her life. She always has a new story or two that she heard from one of her bridge partners, Mrs. Hudson, about her tenants.

And they're such ridiculous and far-fetched stories that Mrs. Hathaway barely believes them, but she enjoys them anyway. They're very exciting. And Mrs. Hudson is not one to make things up like that.

Half-an-hour till opening time and Mrs. Hathaway has to go meet up with her girls for bridge and gossip which gives me just enough time to finish up in the kitchen.

"Hello, are you open?" A young lady calls out. She looks like a college student.

There are always a few of those who call in a bit early. I glance at the clock on the wall. It's a few minutes before opening time, but what the Hell.

"Come on in." I beckon her genially.

She buys a coffee and a croissant. How quaint. It suits her.

And a steady stream of customers keep me company until three o'clock in the afternoon. Seriously, there's no resting for me until then. I always consider hiring workers but it just feels a bit funny so I'm not pushing anything.

Although, Donovan's been known to wait a few tables and wash dishes when she's not working. She's an angel.

Four o'clock rolls around and a suited young man staggers in. I pull out a chair before he falls down. The bags under his eyes are black holes.

"Rough day, mate?" I ask curiously as he drops his head in his hands.

"Umphhh." he grunts, then lifts his head haggardly. "I mean, 'yeah'."

That earns him a chuckle because I am a simple man who is easily entertained. "Okay, what'll it be, then?" I ask.

"Um-... lunch - well - dinner, I guess." he garbles out, waving vaguely at the clock. "Coffee." he decides. "Coffee first."

"You sound like you could use it." I tell him honestly and brew him one of my stronger blends that is usually reserved for Donovan. "You didn't eat lunch, I take it?"

"Mhmm. Work." the man grunts out. "Donovan told me to get suitably fed and coffee-d, told me this was the place to come for it."

"Ah, a policeman, are we?" I smile.

"Inspector." he sighs. "Trust me, the title's not worth the paperwork."

"Well, let's get you fed and coffee-d." I propose as I slide a mug before him.

"Let's."

"Pasta sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful."

This man's name is Inspector Dimmock. I've heard about him from Donovan, he's her governor. I feel like I've known him a decade but this is the first time I'm actually meeting him.

It's interesting.

"Hullo there, Dearie!"

Ah, the voice of a nightingale.

"Mrs. Hudson." I grin. "How was bridge today?"

Mrs. Hudson makes herself comfortable in a chair and shakes her head sadly. "Going nowhere, I'm afraid." she sighs. "Went well for the first round until I mentioned the boys and then I had to recount all their adventures. Everyone forgot we were playing."

"So how _are_ the lads?" I ask.

"Oh, horrible." Mrs. Hudson lowers her voice to a conspiratory whisper. "I've got some new battle wounds on my walls, Sherlock and that terrible gun!"

Dimmock sitting a table down, raises his eyebrows mid cow-chew on a forkful of pasta, looking vaguely concerned but not interrupting.

Tea and a few pastries later, Mrs. Hudson goes home.

Dimmock scuttles off the moment his phone goes off with a call from Donovan.

It's been a monotonous day. I only hope that_ those_ people won't come along.

And speak of the Devil, the door opens for three very upset-looking men.

"Hey Greg." The blonde greets politely.

"Lestrade." The tall one with the coat nods brusquely.

"Good evening, Gregory." The three-piece-suited man hums, unconcerned.

If they were close friends, I'd tell them to get the Hell out and find a different diner to cause havoc in. Unfortunately, they are my most dangerous, interesting, and prolific patrons and I can only smile and say:

"Hello. Welcome to the Strangers Cafe."

And hope the building doesn't fall down by the time they leave. Which, with them, is a legitimate threat.

"We've come to shake the nuisance off our tail." Sherlock announces without preamble.

The nuisance in question sighs and shakes his head in disappointment. "Brother dear, really..."

My phone rings in my trouser pocket and I already know who the text is from.

The elder Holmes goes on berating his rude younger brother but his coat is hung over his hand. And I know that there is a phone in that hand.

Not a glance in my direction. He's secretive and professional like that.

I take their order and disappear into the kitchen to cook up something and to see what is wanted of me today.

**_I have a job for you. -MH_**

As he always does.

I sigh, roll my eyes, and get out the pans.

Looks like I'll have to close shop early today.

* * *

><p>Recounting my day today, you may think that I lead a very quaint, boring life filled with cooking and listening to little old ladies gossiping but the truth is, my day starts when I close down my diner.<p>

**_"Unit 2 approaching the vehicle."_**

Says the tiny female voice in my ear. I touch my earpiece.

"Copy. I see them."

I'm currently lying on my stomach out on a godforsaken roof in the middle of the night keeping an eye on the black sedan in the street below and the van driving up the road that I know houses four former SAS soldiers. It's less tense up here on the roof away from the action... but it's_ freezing_.

Contact will engage in about five seconds. I duck my head down tight and curl my finger around the trigger of my sniper rifle.

The van barely screeches to a halt behind the sedan when the SAS soldiers are jumping out and full on assaulting the black car.

A baffled-looking man in a suit is promptly dragged out and pinned to the ground, the man's bodyguard is next, the driver last. You'll have to give credit where it's due, and these SAS boys live up to their reputations.

But nobody counted for a rider in the shotgun seat doing a runner. I guess that's my cue...

Just a soft squeeze, barely even a twitch, and the man's head disappears quite abruptly from my cross-hairs.

The SAS soldiers barely even react, they don't bother wasting time. The three captives and one corpse is hauled into the back of the SAS van and they drive off. A minute or two later, the black sedan is also gone.

Mycroft Holmes is nothing, if not quiet and efficient.

**_"Good work boys."_** The voice in my earpiece speaks again. **_"Unit 2, back to base. Unit 1, stand by for interrogation. Unit 0, nice shot out there."_**

"Glad someone appreciates me." I smirk good-naturedly.

Someone in Unit 2 grumbles petulantly that they could've handled it. Of course they could've. Just thank me for once. But nah, this is Unit 2 I'm talking about.

I pack away my rifle and jog down seven flights of stairs to the street outside and drive off on my motorbike.

I have to take a quick pit stop at my safehouse to dump my gun and motorbike because it isn't public knowledge that Gregory Lestrade owns any of these things. And Donovan would have a fit over the gun.

"You're late."

The lights aren't even on but I know of only one person with a spare key to the safehouse who would see fit to visit, and would lounge around in my sitting room in the dark.

I pull a gun on him anyway... for security's sake, and because I know it's the only time I'll be able to get away with it.

I reach over with my free hand and flick the lights on.

And then I make a show of sighing in exasperation at the man calmly sitting cross-legged in my favorite chair, lowering my handgun, and rolling my eyes. "Don't do that. I could've killed you."

"You knew it was me even before it crossed your mind to pull that gun." Mycroft sighs right back. "Sometimes I wonder why I keep you on. You always seem to like putting me in unnecessary risk."

"And yet you still sneak into my safehouse." I feel the need to point out. "And harass me at my day job. And bulldoze my diner."

"That only happened once."

I saunter over with that particular stride that I know immediately puts him on edge. "Me pointing guns at you in the dark is nothing personal."

Anthea affectionately calls it my 'angry panther walk'. And with good reason.

I only use it when I know I'm going to get something done. I lean down, hands supporting myself on the armrests of Mycroft's chair, quite effectively cornering him.

"You bulldozed my diner on purpose."

Mycroft closed the distance, leaning upward just a little and kissing me. "Once." he repeated smugly.

You may have thought that my life was a quaint, boring little life. I am here to tell you that people sometimes are not what they seem. And I am one of those cases.

Now, you may wonder how things came to be this way.

Well, I'll tell you. Our story actually starts quite a bit earlier, you see...

Cue rewind...


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Quite a bit earlier...

"Um, excuse me." Twenty-nine year old Sherlock Holmes raised his head heavily to see a man standing over him, silver hair glinting, cigarette poking out of his mouth, umbrella slung over his shoulder to shield him from the rain.

Unlike Mycroft's funeral black umbrellas, this man's was a bright sky blue.

"What?" Sherlock croaked, shifting himself stiffly, feeling his cold joints protest the movement. This was one of the more common things that could happen when one spends the night outside in a cold alley during a shower.

He'd be lucky if he didn't have hypothermia.

"Are you okay?" the man asked, squatting down to level himself with Sherlock, who was sitting sprawled on the cold ground, lying against a wall. "Are you drunk? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

Sherlock simply turned his arm over to show the man his scarred inner elbow. "I'd prefer it if you didn't."

"Hmm." the man hummed solemnly, staring at the damage.

Usually, this would be the moment most would huff in disgust and self-righteousness and walk away.

"Well, you can't just stay there." the man said instead. "You want to come in and get dry?"

Sherlock rubbed an eye and stared at him blearily. "What?"

"I kinda need that space your sitting in." the man replied. "You're sitting in my garbage spot and I need to take out the empty cardboard boxes, see? Tell you what, you move from there into the store and I'll make us some breakfast before opening, how does that sound?" He held out his hand. "Deal?"

Sherlock looked at the hand, to the man offering it, and back.

Then, he took it.

That was his first meeting with Gregory Lestrade.

"I'm Greg Lestrade, by the way." Lestrade introduced himself as he easily pulled Sherlock to his feet by the hand he shook. "I work here." He jabbed a thumb toward the store Sherlock was sitting behind. "The Strangers Cafe."

"Sherlock." Sherlock replied. "Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade smiled a little, eyebrow twitching. "I'll try my best not to judge."

"Speak for yourself,_ Lestrade._"

Lestrade laughed and led Sherlock through a back door to the small kitchen.

"There's a laundry machine over there." Lestrade pointed. "Just stuff your clothes in there, I'll get you a towel and some clothes. You can shower upstairs."

"Is that okay?" Sherlock asked him dubiously as he watched Lestrade bustle around looking for towels.

"Oh it's fine!" Lestrade grinned. "My flatmate and I live up there. But you might not want to flaunt your addictions around with her because she's a cop."

"Wonderful." Sherlock sighed, taking the towel offered to him and disappearing into the bathroom, tossing out his drenched clothes a minute later.

He got out of the shower and dried off just as Lestrade returned with a change of clothes.

"Okay, these should fit you." Lestrade said slowly, eyes glancing Sherlock from head to toe, vaguely measuring him. "I never wear these clothes because they're too big for me." he said, handing him a pair of sweats.

Just at that moment, Donovan staggered out of her room, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

Everybody froze.

"Caught you!" Donovan suddenly shouted, pointing a triumphant finger at Lestrade.

Lestrade just rolled his eyes. "Sorry Donovan but, as damning as this situation seems to be, this doesn't actually prove I'm gay. I met this guy like ten minutes ago."

"Ha! You're a bit quick, aren't you?" Donovan smirked, elbowing him.

"Very funny." Lestrade grumbled. "This'll teach me not to watch chick flicks with you. Sherlock, put on some clothes. Donovan, shut up or I'll not make you any coffee."

Donovan mimed zipping her mouth shut but she was smiling.

"Seriously though." Sherlock made a hasty retreat but he could hear them talking through the closed door. "I found him outside. He was drenched, I couldn't just leave him there. He'd probably die from the cold."

"What have I told you about picking up strays?" Donovan sighed.

"He's not a stray. He's staying for breakfast, then I'm sending him home."

"With a letter to his mum to keep him in bed until his health clears?" Donovan teased. "But seriously, he's attractive! And you haven't gotten any action for a while."

"Oh, for the love of God!" Lestrade groaned. "What business is it of yours?"

"I just want you to settle down with a nice girl and be happy." Donovan mimicked the nasally tone of a doting mother. "Or - well - nice _boy_, whichever way you end up swinging."

"But Mum!" Lestrade protested. "I'm going to get cooties!"

"Doesn't count if he's a boy." Donovan pointed out.

"Well I'm very well going to get_ boy_ cooties, then." Lestrade responded stubbornly.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped out, causing the two bickering flatmates to jump guiltily. "Am I interrupting?" he asked archly, absently tugging at the long-sleeved shirt Lestrade gave him.

"Nope, I was just waiting for the bathroom." Donovan lied cheerfully, brushing past him.

"Don't mind her." Lestrade advised. "She's all rubbish, anyway."

"I heard that!" Donovan hollered through the closed door.

Lestrade stuck his tongue out in reply despite not being visible to Donovan. Then, he turned back to Sherlock. "Anyway, come on down. I've got coffee brewing, and toast if you're interested."

Sherlock was then promptly settled down at a table as Lestrade bustled about preparing the diner for opening time. Ten minutes later, Donovan sauntered in and demanded food which Lestrade grudgingly supplied.

Sherlock watched them silently as they bantered back and forth throughout breakfast.

"So." He startled when the conversation suddenly turned in his direction. "Your name is Sherlock Holmes?" Donovan smiled.

Sherlock took a glance around and noticed that Lestrade was out of the store taking out the trash like he had been attempting when he stumbled across Sherlock.

"Yes." he replied belatedly.

"Are you an addict?" Donovan asked bluntly.

Sherlock, who was just sipping his coffee, dropped his cup. He recovered quickly and righted his mug, mopping up his mess with a napkin. "What's it to you?" he snapped.

"Nothing." Donovan shrugged, then, dropped all facade of friendliness. "Honestly, I couldn't care less about your habits while I'm off duty. I'm a copper, see, and I know the signs of an addiction... and I saw your arm when Lestrade was giving you clothes."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to be making a big deal about something you so say 'couldn't care less' about." Sherlock snarled.

"Greg's my friend." Donovan snapped back. "And he'll deny it till Doomsday, but he actually_ does_ run a charity here. But judging by the clothes drying out back, you're not one of his usual homeless cases. And, believe me, I've seen dozens of wash-ups like you drift in and out causing trouble for him and if you think you're going to get away with it because you're rich, then think again. Because if I sense even a hint of you trying to take advantage of him, I'll deal with you myself. Are we clear?"

Sherlock stared at her. "I didn't ask him to drag me in here."

"You didn't ask him _not_ to." Donovan shot back. "Just don't make trouble for him, and I won't make trouble for you."

"I don't intend to stick around." Sherlock shrugged.

"That's fine with me."

Just then, they heard the door open and close and Lestrade walked back in. One step into the room and he could feel the tense atmosphere. He paused. "Did I interrupt something?" he asked suspiciously.

Donovan leaned back into her seat and resumed sipping coffee serenely. "Nope."

Sherlock got up. "I was just leaving." he told Lestrade.

"Oh, okay." Lestrade said slowly, not believing for a moment that nothing transpired in his absence. "Your clothes should be dry-...ish. Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"No, thank you." Sherlock responded stiffly and stuffed his hand into his pocket for spare change when he remembered he wasn't wearing his own pants.

"No charge." Lestrade smiled warmly.

Sherlock glanced at Donovan. Donovan mouthed back 'charity'.

"Much obliged." Sherlock responded and hurriedly disappeared into the bathroom to change.

"See you!" Lestrade waved at his retreating back as he left the diner.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"You know..." Lestrade said a few weeks later, raising an eyebrow at the young man sprawled on the ground. "We should probably stop meeting like this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes up at him scathingly. "An extraordinary observation, have you considered a career in the Yard?"

"Don't think I commit that many crimes." Lestrade responded.

Sherlock snorted.

There was a syringe on the ground next to Sherlock but thankfully the contents were beginning to spill out of a silvery crack that had been created when the two men collided, sending Sherlock falling on his arse.

"You know that's bad for you." Lestrade commented idly, nodding at the syringe.

"Doesn't everybody tell you the same thing about your smoking habit?" Sherlock sneered, sniffing.

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't smoke_ that_ much."

Sherlock stood up, dusting himself off, and sniffed a second time. "I'd venture to say at least a carton a day and if that's not bad, I don't know what is."

"Hey, I'm still weaning off them!" Lestrade complained.

"Which only implies that you used to smoke_ more_." Sherlock scoffed. "Congratulations. You're going to die from lung cancer."

"At least I'm trying to stop." the older man grumbled.

"_I_ don't have the same conviction." Sherlock shrugged bluntly. "What are you doing down here, anyway?"

"I was just in the neighborhood." Lestrade shrugged.

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and looked around pointedly. They were in one of those darker neighborhoods that most wouldn't want to find themselves alone in at night.

"_So?_" Lestrade asked, slightly defensive.

Sherlock sniffed a third time. "Tomato sauce." he declared. "I thought it was just the smell of your diner seeped into your clothes but no, there's tomato sauce in your bag. A touch too much garlic, though. Pasta, then. Donovan told me you were a hopeless man with some serious bleeding heart tendencies."

"Oh, Donovan and her big mouth...!" Lestrade rolled his eyes.

Sherlock just sighed down at the broken syringe as if terribly disappointed in its failure. "Well, there goes my evening."

"And good riddance." Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Hey, you want to stop by, if you've got no other plans?" he asked, louder.

"I'm afraid Donovan's going to bite my head off if I do." Sherlock remarked.

"Don't worry about her, she's like that to everybody." Lestrade waved his worries off. "And don't worry, she's on duty right now. Me and a few lads are going to get together for some drinks. You coming?"

"Is that an event you would usually invite perfect strangers along to?" Sherlock asked him dubiously.

"My diner_ does_ go by the name 'The Strangers Cafe'." Lestrade shrugged. "Should I expect you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I have an appointment at the morgue tonight."

"Oh..." Lestrade's face fell. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked confused. "Why?"

This cause Lestrade to also become quite bewildered. "Why wouldn't I be?"

A brief moment of silence...

"Oh! No!" Sherlock exclaimed with a sharp rebuffing movement. "I meant I was meeting one of the pathologists to run some experiments."

"Oh." Lestrade looked a little embarrassed. "Right. So, you're some sort of doctor, are you?"

"I'm a bit of everything, really." Sherlock shrugged. "A jack-of-all-trades."

"And a master of a few of them, I hope." Lestrade smiled.

Sherlock looked at him loftily. "A master of_ all_ of them, I reckon." he replied.

"Humble, aren't you."

Sherlock just smirked. "Well then, I should be going."

"Me too." Lestrade nodded and walked off.

* * *

><p>"Brother." A man in a three-piece suit and a black umbrella hung over his elbow stood in the doorway.<p>

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. "Mycroft." he huffed. "Someone tried to extend their condolences when I mentioned I'd be at the morgue. I should only be so lucky were that the case."

Mycroft snorted back. "You break my heart." he said dryly. "I need you on a case."

"My mind should be pleasantly euphoric right now, but it isn't. I have no patience to deal with you." Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft just looked mildly surprised. "Turning over a new leaf, brother?"

"I dropped my syringe." Sherlock snapped back.

"Clumsy, Sherlock?" Mycroft huffed bitterly. "Or just desperate?"

"A collision, actually." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And it's no business of yours."

"I suppose I should be grateful for this happy accident." Mycroft sighed and pulled out a file. "Everything you need to know is in there."

"I won't touch it." Sherlock told him stubbornly.

"As you said yourself, you didn't get your fix." Mycroft pointed out rationally as he strolled over and dropped the file on the table by Sherlock's hand.

Then, he paused, looked mildly confused, and sniffed the air.

"Sherlock, you smell like tomatoes and I can only dream of you eating without being force fed." he said. "Did you fall into a grocer's cart?"

"That's no business of yours." Sherlock repeated. He delicately pinched the front cover of the file like it was something horrid and lifted it open slightly. "I'm looking at the case, see? Happy? Now leave!"

Mycroft merely shrugged and walked out.

* * *

><p>As Mycroft was leaving his brother in the morgue, his sharp sense of smell caught whiff of the same fresh, slightly fruit-acidic scent his brother had.<p>

"Molly!"

Mycroft slowed to a halt and peered down the hall where he had heard voices.

"Overworking isn't good for you, you know?" Lestrade said scoldingly. "I hope you haven't been on that diet of fish-and-chips again! I brought you proper food." Out of his messenger bag, he pulled out a canteen of tea and a few wrapped sandwiches. "Hydrate, and - um - susten-ate."

"I really shouldn't trouble you..." Molly insisted weakly, blushing a little, but thankful nonetheless.

"No problem, your mum really worries, you know?" Lestrade told her. "I wouldn't come all the way unless her worrying about you worries me. Take a look at the clock sometimes, don't just eat when you're hungry."

The young pathologist looked suitably scolded. "I was busy today..." she whined a little, but dug in to her food.

"Excuses." Lestrade chuckled. "Hey, you coming over for drinks tonight with everybody? Donovan won't be there, but Finn and Gary will be there. You know them? Mrs. Turner's boys."

"Um, I'm still stuck doing something." Molly sighed. "Doing a bit of a side project."

"Sounds exciting." Lestrade nodded. "But don't overdo it."

"See you." Molly waved as Lestrade walked out.

"Bye!" Lestrade waved back as he brushed by Mycroft. "Sorry, mate. Didn't see you there."

"Oh, it's no problem." Mycroft responded coolly.

Lestrade just grinned and went on his way.

Mycroft got into his car a few moment's later and frowned.

Anthea took notice. "Is something the matter, Sir?" she asked.

"Nothing." Mycroft sighed. "It's nothing. Just... everybody smells like fresh tomatoes today."

He didn't say anything about Anthea surreptitiously sniffing her own scent of delicate white musk. That would be awkward.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"You're too nice to everybody." Donovan decided one day as she and Lestrade sprawled halfway over each other on the couch watching TV in their pyjamas and sharing a bag of chips like a pair of teenagers. "That's why you don't get any dates. All the girls think you're dating someone else."

Lestrade could only shift his leg from under hers in an attempt at a kick only because his hand was holding a cigarette. "They probably think I'm dating _you_. I _live_ with you." he grumbled.

"Yup, they don't love you like I do." Donovan nodded sagely.

Lestrade kicked again. "Get up, I'm going to make some coffee, you want?"

"I want!" Donovan exclaimed eagerly like a child.

Lestrade scoffed as he disentangled himself from her, extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and walked into their second floor kitchenette. "You are such a kid on your days off."

"I just want to stay in my pyjamas all day and roll around like a lazy arse until bedtime." Donovan raised her hand in a lazy 'peace' sign.

"You're so weird." Lestrade laughed, then happened to glance out of their small kitchen window.

He stopped and stared.

"Um, Donovan." he began. "Hold the thought. You might want to get changed."

"Why?" Donovan whined.

"I think someone's trying to steal Mr. Bunter's laundry." Lestrade looked at her, completely deadpan.

Donovan dashed over. "Mr. Bunter is the bloke two houses down?" she asked, pushing him aside and peering out of the window.

Sure enough, someone was scaling the water pipe to the second floor porch where Mr. Bunter's laundry was hanging out to dry.

"What the bloody Hell?" Donovan cursed under her breath and dashed off to change.

Lestrade, who's sleepwear was loose drawstring pants and a T-shirt, simply stuffed his feet into some shoes, and jogged across the street to the house in question.

He stood under it and looked up. "Um, excuse me?"

The would-be thief paused his climbing and looked down. "What?" he hissed.

"Holy shit, Sherlock?" Lestrade gaped.

"Hello, Lestrade." Sherlock responded casually, panting slightly from the exertion of climbing up the water pipe.

"What the Hell are you doing?" Lestrade asked him sharply.

"I need to take a look at Mr. Bunter's shoes." Sherlock told him matter-of-factly.

"You need a what?"

Donovan finally caught up to them. "You need to get down here right now, is what you need to do!" she shrieked.

"Just a moment." Sherlock said. "This is a matter of life and death, you see?"

"How...?" Donovan threw her hands up. "You know what? I don't care. I'm going to call for someone to bring a car around, you're coming down to the station with me!"

"First off, why don't we tell Mr. Bunter someone's trying to break into his flat?" Lestrade suggested calmly.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said. "Mr. Bunter's been in a holding cell down at the Yard for the last four hours."

"How was_ I_ supposed to know that?" Lestrade frowned up at him. "Do I look like a cop to you?"

"No, but_ she_ is." Sherlock nodded his head in Donovan's direction.

"You said it was a matter of life and death?" Donovan asked.

"Yes, see I was hired by Mr. Bunter." Sherlock told them as he continued his upward ascent. "He was caught up in a murder case. The police think he committed a murder he didn't commit and the evidence of his innocence happens to be on the bottom of his shoes in the form of mud. If I get those shoes, I can prove he wasn't at the crime scene at the time of the crime. He's lucky it rained."

"I'll get the police on it." Donovan called out. "Get down, you git."

"I told them they were missing a vital piece of evidence." Sherlock complained as he disappeared over the edge of the porch momentarily before poking his head back over with a pair of sodden sneakers in hand. "The idiot in charge didn't believe me."

Lestrade looked from Donovan to Sherlock. "Which idiot?"

"Some detective inspector named Dimmock." Sherlock told them, bagging the shoes.

Donovan let out a noise of disapproval. "That's my governor you're talking about!"

"He's a fool." Sherlock told her.

"You...!" Donovan seethed, then she yelped when Sherlock dropped the bagged evidence down at them. "Hey! Watch it!"

But Sherlock was already climbing back down the way he had gotten up.

"Oh yeah, because that's not dangerous at all." Lestrade said dryly. "You know that water pipe is older than Methuselah?"

Suddenly, there was a creaking noise of rusty metal bending and suddenly Sherlock came raining down on them.

Lestrade just managed to step forward and stretch out his arms fast enough to break his fall and both were sent crashing to the hard ground.

Both men yelled in pain.

Sherlock rolled off Lestrade, groaning and clutching his left shin. "Cheers, Lestrade." he grumbled through gritted teeth.

Lestrade cradled the arm that had been pinned under Sherlock's weight. "If I'd known it would happen, I wouldn't have said it."

"Both of you are idiots!" Donovan yelled, already snapping out short, curt phrases on her phone. "Are you two okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock replied quickly. Too quickly.

"I'll live." Lestrade ground out.

Donovan rolled her eyes. "_Boys._" she sighed, exasperated. "I'm calling an ambulance."

* * *

><p>"<em>Well<em>, this has been an experience." Lestrade deadpanned as he sat on a hospital bench, his arm in a sling. He was still in his pyjamas.

Sherlock, who was sitting on the other end of the bench with his foot in a cast, grunted.

"This has actually never happened to me before." Lestrade continued. "This is weird."

Sherlock grunted again.

"Sherlock?" a voice called out and both men turned. A fleshy man with glasses stood a short ways down the hall looking flustered. "Getting into trouble again?"

"Mike." Sherlock nodded curtly.

"I was just visiting a colleague when I thought I saw someone familiar." Stamford smiled sympathetically, then, he belatedly noticed Lestrade almost hidden from view behind Sherlock's towering frame. "Oh, hi there."

"Hi, I'm Sherlock's accident-mate." Lestrade extended his non-sprained hand. "Greg Lestrade."

"Mike Stamford." Stamford introduced himself and took his hand, shaking it. "What happened?"

"This idiot climbed up a water pipe." Lestrade said, pointing at Sherlock. "And then he fell down."

"You jinxed me." Sherlock retorted, crossing his arms.

Lestrade moved to cross his own arms, remembered his sling, and instead crossed his legs. He grinned cheekily at Sherlock, Sherlock glared back. "It's all in your head. Jinxes don't actually work."

"They do, if done correctly." Stamford and Lestrade jumped at the new voice.

"_Mycroft!_ What are you doing here?" Sherlock groaned.

"Come to pick you up, brother dear." Mycroft replied smugly. "I am your next of kin, after all. Really now, at your age and still needing to be bailed out of trouble."

"I can take care of myself." Sherlock snapped.

"The legal system thinks otherwise." Mycroft responded coolly.

"It thinks what you want it to." Sherlock seethed.

"Wait, you have a_ brother?_" Stamford asked. "You never told me that."

"There are many things Sherlock doesn't flaunt." Mycroft smiled at him politely. "I am at the very top of that list. We do not get along." He held out a hand almost primly. "Mycroft Holmes, and you must be Mike Stamford."

"Uh, yeah." Stamford stammered, shaking his hand.

Mycroft turned his icy gaze on Lestrade. He stopped still, taking in Lestrade's sleepwear. "And you are?"

"Greg Lestrade." Lestrade shook his hand as well and smiled. "I discovered your brother in my garbage spot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh... how very..." Mycroft blinked, momentarily at a loss for words at Lestrade's frankness. "Well, I hope he wasn't too much trouble."

"Not that time, no." Lestrade shrugged with a smile.

Mycroft smiled and released his hand, inhaling softly. Then, he turned and raised his eyebrow at Sherlock. "Tomatoes." he murmured under his breath.

"None of your business." Sherlock hissed back quietly.

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing." Mycroft smiled politely. "I'm afraid my brother has inconvenienced you both dearly. Thank you for bringing him in. Mister Lestrade, I pray for a speedy recovery." He nodded at them. "Good day."

Then he turned and walked off, Sherlock trailing reluctantly behind him.

Lestrade wrinkled his nose a little and looked at Stamford. "Do I smell like tomatoes?" he asked self-consciously.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The Strangers Cafe was closed that day.

This was not unusual, considering the fact that its sole owner/chef/waiter was down to one functioning hand.

Lestrade sat slouched over a table in the empty diner, head resting on its cool surface, cheek smashed against the wood in a show of exaggerated misery.

Donovan placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of his face so close he could feel heat radiating off the glass. "Don't be like that." the cop admonished as she sat down beside him.

"I want to die..." Lestrade moaned dramatically. "I have only one reason to live in life and I can't do anything about it because I can't use both hands. I will die, Sally, I will die of boredom."

"Drink some coffee." Donovan suggested. "You'll feel better."

Lestrade reluctantly peeled his face off the table and cradled his drink. "Okay."

"I'm going to work in a few minutes, but when I get back we'll watch a movie or something, promise." Donovan patted his shoulder. "I'll even get some ice cream or something on the way back."

"You're the best." Lestrade mumbled back, batting her hand away good-naturedly.

"Sure you don't want painkillers, or something?"

"I'm fine!"

"Okay, but I'm leaving a few around, just in case." Donovan waved as she left. "And you better not die of boredom while I'm gone because I'm not sitting through Indiana Jones by myself, okay?"

"Okay!" Lestrade shouted back, brightening a little at the prospect of watching Indiana Jones when his friend got back from work.

He sat drinking his coffee and smoking for a few minutes when he heard a light tapping on the front door of the diner.

"We're not open today!" he called out apologetically as he got up and shuffled his feet to the door, opening it. "Oh hi, Mrs. Hathaway, come for breakfast? Sorry, I've got a bad hand today." He lifted the offending appendage for inspection.

Mrs. Hathaway clicked her tongue sympathetically. "Thought it might be like this so I stopped by the lovely Mister Kendrick's bread store on the way over." She held up a bag of mouth-watering breads and pastries.

"Oh, you shouldn't have." Lestrade smiled at the little lady's thoughtfulness.

"Don't be silly." Mrs. Hathaway slapped his good arm and gestured for him to get plates. "I thought it might be a good time to return the favor."

A pretty young lady poked her head through the still open door. "Are you open?" she asked quietly. "I didn't see the lights on."

"No, we're closed for the day." Lestrade told her apologetically. "Well,_ I'm_ closed for the day." He held up his bad hand.

"Oh, okay." The lady nodded. "Sorry."

"No, no, come back again next time!" Lestrade smiled in a friendly manner. The lady nodded and disappeared.

"Well,_ I_ certainly hope she'll come back." Mrs. Hathaway smiled, raising an eyebrow hopefully.

"Mrs. Hathaway!" Lestrade protested, growing a little pinker around the cheeks.

"She's pretty!" Mrs. Hathaway said laughingly.

"She's-..." Lestrade made vague motions in the air with his good hand before ultimately giving up and sagging. "Yeah, she was pretty, wasn't she?"

* * *

><p>"No." Donovan growled.<p>

"I can at least hold a spatula." Lestrade grumbled back.

"You may be able to, but that doesn't mean you will." Donovan retorted as she wrangled the pan and cooking spatula away from her friend.

"Eating microwave meals three times a day can't be healthy." Lestrade pointed out reasonably.

"I'll cook you an egg." Donovan sighed. "But it has to be scrambled, and both eggshells and burned bits must be forgiven."

"Alright."

* * *

><p>"I can move my hand!" Lestrade thrust both hands toward the sky dramatically. "Freedom!"<p>

Molly giggled a little at him. "Don't exaggerate."

"You're a lifesaver, Molly." Lestrade grinned. "I thought I was going to go crazy without anything to do."

"I only took off the bandages." Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear shyly.

"Just take the gratitude." Lestrade growled without malice.

"Okay."

"Hey, wanna be my first customer since healing?" Lestrade suggested.

"I guess. I'm getting off work early today."

"Great. You can bring Sherlock, I think I saw him upstairs." Lestrade proposed. "I was about to go talk to him but he hissed at me like a rabid cat. Do cat's get rabid?"

"Cats do actually get rabies." Molly told him. "But that's not really my area of expertise."

"Right, right."

"I'll ask Sherlock if he can come by, but I can't promise anything." Molly told him. "He's been caught up in some murder case."

Lestrade perked up at that. "Oh, really?"

Molly caught on to his interest. "Oh yeah, I forget you almost became a cop."

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't think the world was ready for me." he joked, gesturing to himself.

Molly laughed. "I think you would have become a great policeman."

"Thanks." Lestrade shrugged bashfully. "Hey, you happen to know what Sherlock is doing on the case? He said he was something of a doctor, or some sort of specialist."

"He's a private investigator, of sorts." Molly shrugged. "He said he was a 'consulting detective'."

"And what the Hell is that?" Lestrade asked her curiously.

"It means he consults the police on difficult cases." Molly explained briefly. "At least, I think that's what he said."

"Okay, then." Lestrade sighed. "And what's the case he's on?"

"A triple murder-suicide." Molly replied absently, then immediately covered her mouth. "I don't think I was supposed to tell you that. The police said the information wasn't available to the public yet. Because they'd go crazy over a serial murder-suicide."

"Okay, mums the word, and all." Lestrade smiled sympathetically. "I understand."

Molly smiled back. "I'll come by later, see if Sherlock will come."

"You do that."

* * *

><p>Lestrade's face broke out into a smile when the door opened. "Hey! Didn't think you'd actually show up!"<p>

Sherlock scowled as he sauntered into the diner and dramatically threw himself into a chair. "My brother has set the dogs on me and I don't want them following me home." he grumbled.

"How rude." An attractive brunette remarked coolly, not lifting her eyes from her phone.

Something about her seemed vaguely familiar. Lestrade scrunched up his nose and wracked his brain to remember where he saw her.

"She's just doing her job, Freak." Donovan snapped as she dragged herself through the doors, wet shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. "Hey, Greg."

"Hey, Donovan." Lestrade greeted back, and then looked down. "What the Hell happened to you?"

"I fell into a ditch." Donovan rolled her eyes.

Lestrade burst out laughing. "How?"

"I tackled a suspect." Donovan shrugged. "Stuff happened. Anyway, I need to change... and shower. Save some dinner for me."

"You got it." Lestrade snickered down at the trail of moisture Donovan was leaving as she walked across the room. "You're cleaning up after yourself, won't you?"

"Of course." Donovan snorted. "I don't have the heart to make the poor injured man do it."

Lestrade dramatically clutched his arm. "It only hurts when it rains." he sighed sadly. Then, he turned to Sherlock. "How is your leg, by the way?"

"Horrible." Sherlock grunted. "Mycroft has taken it as an excuse to have his minions invade my life. It's a nuisance."

"Aw, shame. What'll we be having tonight?" Lestrade asked them all.

Sherlock shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I probably won't be eating."

Lestrade looked at him. "What?"

"It tampers with my brain's functions."

"It what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leveled him a scornful look. "You wouldn't understand."

"Then explain." Lestrade responded calmly. "Such a clever man like you, it should be easy."

"I'm in the middle of solving a case. I need all my faculties directed toward my brain. My body doesn't have the time or patience to digest." Sherlock enunciated slowly and clearly as if speaking to an exceptionally dull child.

Lestrade's eyebrow twitched. Well then... two can play at that game. He plastered on a wide smile. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" He cooed exaggeratedly, patting Sherlock's head, much to the younger man's horror. He recoiled violently and slapped Lestrade's hand away.

Molly covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

"Sorry, where are my manners." Lestrade turned to the brunette. "I'm Greg, and you are...?"

The woman contemplated for a moment too long. "Anthea." She replied.

"... And who are you when you're at home?" Lestrade asked.

A mysterious smile. "Still just me." she replied vaguely.

"Give up, Lestrade, she's one of Mycroft's best." Sherlock groaned. "She is just as much a meddler as he is. He's taught her well."

Anthea glanced up from her phone for a split second to send the young man a wry look. "Thanks... I think, for the _kind-of-_compliment you didn't mean to give. It was _almost_ nice of you." she drawled.

Lestrade laughed. "Anyway, I'm hungry, what'll we eat?"

"Something easy to make." Donovan threw in, sauntering into the room with a towel draped over her head. "Don't want you over doing it."

Lestrade made a show of pouting. "_You_ help if you don't want me killing myself."

Donovan lifted her hands in an abortive move. "Nope, I'm just going to sit over here and watch the train crash."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence." Lestrade drawled.

"You're welcome."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Two hours and five pizzas later, Lestrade scratched his head and sighed in exasperation. "I just can't put my finger on it."

Donovan looked over. "Can't put your finger on what?"

Lestrade jabbed his thumb over in Anthea's direction. "I can't remember where I saw her face. It's familiar, but I don't know why."

Anthea looked up with a 'who me?' expression.

"Probably Mycroft spying on you." Sherlock drawled around a picky nibble of pizza after being coerced into eating. "You spotted her out, good for you."

"Why would your brother spy on me?" Lestrade asked, confused. "I have a guard dog."

"That's not the question you should be asking!" Donovan snapped back, slapping him upside the head good-naturedly. "And I'm not your guard dog."

"No." Lestrade responded soberly. "You boss me around relentlessly. You're more like a cat."

That earned him a hard pinch.

"But seriously, can we get back to the part where we were talking about you being stalked?" Donovan asked. "Because, that's a legitimate problem with you."

"Is not." Lestrade scoffed.

Donovan just gave him an incredulous look and fondly patted his shoulder. "Stay innocent."

"Back to your brother." Lestrade prompted pointedly, looking at Sherlock.

"He's a menace to society, a fat, lazy bastard, and paranoid, to top it off." Sherlock scowled. "He is also the British Government."

"Don't forget to mention that he's also my boss." Anthea put in coolly.

Lestrade and Donovan swallowed hard down on their suddenly dry throats. "Sorry."

Anthea just smiled back in a way that you couldn't tell whether she meant 'that's okay' or 'I'm going to kill you'.

Lestrade sudden slapped his knee, causing Molly to jump. "Oh!"

"Oh my God!" Molly squeaked. "What?"

"You came here before!" Lestrade grinned. "That's when I saw you."

"See?" Sherlock huffed. "Spying."

"Except, I was closed because of my hand." Lestrade went on sheepishly.

"Actually, I wasn't spying." Anthea said to Sherlock. "I actually just needed to eat."

"Quite a suspicious coincidence." Donovan grumbled.

"So is the fact that Mister Lestrade knows the Detective Sergeant working directly under the only Detective Inspector in London who has had experience working with Sherlock, he knows the pathologist, and also the landlady." Anthea pointed out.

Silence.

Lestrade made a face. "You must be the new tenant Mrs. Hudson took on." he realized, looking at Sherlock.

"As of yesterday." Sherlock looked suspicious. "Word travels fast. How did you hear of it so quickly? Do you work for Mycroft?"

"Yes, and you... falling asleep in my garbage was planned as well." Lestrade responded sarcastically.

"But you have to admit." Molly piped in, popping an olive into her mouth. "It's a strange coincidence that Lestrade knows everybody."

Everybody seemed to suspect something different, but nobody said anything.

"Anyway, I should be off." Molly sighed sadly, brushing a few crumbs off her lap. "Thanks for having me over."

Donovan and Lestrade waved. "Our pleasure." Lestrade said. "Be safe."

"I will." Molly called back as she left.

"I guess I've been here long enough." Anthea said, checking the time on her phone.

"Giving up?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

Anthea sent him a blank look. "I do, in fact, clock out sometimes. I don't work 24/7."

"Really? I thought you were a government-funded android." Sherlock smirked.

Anthea opened her mouth, but paused, no doubt stopping herself from a rude retort. "Nevermind."

Both Donovan and Lestrade snorted, Sherlock just blinked.

"Anyway." Lestrade chuckled. "It was good to have you both over, come again sometime... you know, when I'm actually open." He made a vague gesture around the diner.

"Sure." Anthea replied. Sherlock shrugged.

"Bye!"

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, somewhere in a dimly lit office, Mycroft Holmes pored over a thin file of one, Gregory Lestrade.<p>

"Sir?" There was a gentle knock on the door.

Mycroft stuffed the file into his desk drawer and straightened in his seat. "Enter."

"We just received contact from Ms. Anthea." A smartly groomed man named David announced, entering the room. "It seems that your brother has visited a..." He briefly consulted a pad he held in the crook of his elbow. "A 'Gregory Lestrade', for a meeting with friends."

"'Friends'?" Mycroft questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Mister Lestrade's friends and Sherlock's acquaintances coincidentally overlap, Sir." David responded crisply.

"How... suspicious." Mycroft mused to himself.

"Indeed, Sir."

The two remained in silence for a moment or two.

Finally, Mycroft stood up. "Very well, it seems that I must meet this man." He sighed and smoothed out his suit jacket. "You will drive me to this 'Strangers Cafe' tomorrow."

His subordinate nodded. "Very well, Sir."

* * *

><p>The next day was slow in the Strangers Cafe, and yet Lestrade was glad that Donovan had a day off work today.<p>

"You should be glad." Donovan grumbled as she scrubbed the bottom of a pot in the kitchen sink.

"I would've died without you." Lestrade proclaimed exaggeratedly as he dumped another load of dishes into the sink for her. "But, I think that's it for today. I'm going to close up shop. You go on ahead, I can finish here."

"You sure?" Donovan asked him.

Lestrade level her a stern look. "Go! I can wash dishes."

Donovan shrugged. "Sorry for worrying."

"Mother hen." Lestrade accused good-naturedly.

"Stubborn brat." Donovan shot right back, but dried her hands on a towel and strolled off.

Lestrade snorted at her retreating back and then returned to the dining room to clear the rest of the dishes and lock up.

"Forgive the lateness of my visit, but do you have time for one more patron?" Lestrade jumped at the voice, nearly dropping the dishes in his hands.

He turned to see Mycroft standing by the door. "Oh, uh, sure." he replied uneasily, a little irked at being caught so off-guard. "What'll it be?"

Mycroft contemplated that for a moment. "A coffee, please." he decided.

"Coffee coming right up." Lestrade nodded and shuffled off behind the bar. "Hey." he called as he turned on the coffee machine. "You're Sherlock's brother, aren't you?"

"As unfortunate as it is for the both of us, I am." Mycroft sighed deprecatingly as he leaned on the bar.

"Can I ask why you always say that as a bad thing?" Lestrade asked as he rummaged around in the cupboards for some coffee that wasn't the horrible instant stuff that Donovan and he had been surviving on since his injury.

Mycroft shrugged. "We simply do not get along." he replied. "And we see no need to torture ourselves more by trying to."

"Fair enough." Lestrade snorted. "How do you like your coffee?"

"I do not have many preferences when it comes to coffee." Mycroft said, shrugging. "Surprise me."

"Ohh, I hate it when people say that." Lestrade groaned, but began foaming milk, anyway.

"Surprising." Mycroft chuckled. "You seem like the sort of man who welcomes the challenge."

"Oh I enjoy guessing a person's preference alright." Lestrade responded. "But I'm no psychic."

"You strike me as being an avid people watcher." Mycroft said. "How wrong have you been?"

"Hm..." Lestrade grimaced. "I once ground nuts onto an allergic's frappuccino. That was pretty bad."

"Should've seen that one coming." Mycroft sighed. "Some people..."

"It's said that a person's coffee says alot about them." Lestrade remarked dryly. "But only as much as our astrological signs."

"People are their own person." Mycroft hummed back thoughtfully.

"Yes, they are." Lestrade grinned back and handed him a frothy mug of coffee.

Mycroft took a sip and hummed appreciatively. "That's quite excellent." he remarked. "Could use a sprinkle of vanilla."

"Vanilla?" Lestrade repeated, handing him a shaker of powdered vanilla. "Didn't expect that."

"I usually take mine black." Mycroft informed him. "But I'm not working at the moment."

"Oh good." Lestrade smiled. "Speaking of which, Sherlock said you were the British government."

Mycroft choked on his coffee. "Lies. All of it." he spluttered.

Lestrade calmly handed him a napkin.

"Thank you." Mycroft said, dabbing at his mouth. "And Sherlock always says that, it would do you good not to listen to him. He is such a troublesome boy."

"He's hardly a boy." Lestrade scoffed. "He's, what, twenty?"

"Nearly thirty." Mycroft sighed. "But, as they say: you're never too old to be immature."

Lestrade made a mock two-fingered saluting gesture. "Cheers to that."

"But, I didn't actually come here to talk about coffee, or Sherlock." Mycroft said politely. "How are your injuries?"

"Good." Lestrade smiled awkwardly. "It's all fine. Good enough to open shop again. Your... uh, that lady - Anthea - I didn't really catch what your relationship with her is, other than she works with you, she came around for lunch today."

"Did she?" Mycroft feigned hurt. "And she didn't invite me."

Lestrade smiled. "So you two are good friends?"

"She is my assistant." Mycroft replied.

"And she assists you with-...?" Lestrade prodded curiously.

"Oh I'm just a boring office worker." Mycroft lied, laughing abashedly. "I work security."

"And that's not important at all." Lestrade laughed.

"But only if you say it like that." Mycroft replied demurely and glanced at his watch. "Oh dear, it seems I must be off."

"Well, I won't keep you." Lestrade smiled, taking the empty mug from Mycroft.

Mycroft left the money for his coffee on the bar. "Well, this has been most enjoyable."

"You're welcome to come again sometime." Lestrade said.

"Perhaps I will."

And with that, Mycroft walked out.

David was waiting for him in the car outside with Anthea in the backseat.

"How was your meeting?" Anthea asked crisply, not even looking up from her phone. "Do you find Mister Lestrade's association with Sherlock acceptable?"

Mycroft sighed as he settled into his seat. "You know what?" Anthea looked at him. "I completely forgot to ask him about that."

Anthea raised a dainty eyebrow. "Then, what took you so long?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Coffee."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"I can't believe it!" Donovan raged first thing as she stalked into the flat, childishly picking up and punching an unfortunate couch cushion.

Lestrade wandered out of the bathroom, toothbrush stuck in his cheek. "'at?" he grunted curiously through a mouthful of foam.

Donovan groaned and collapsed face-first onto the couch and didn't move.

"...'Onovan..." Lestrade called cautiously, prodding Donovan's leg with his toe.

Donovan's head popped up. "There's this case." she began. "Serial suicide, three of them."

"Odd. And?" Lestrade continued to scrub his teeth now that he knew there was nothing seriously wrong with his flatmate.

"My DI is considering bringing that Holmes in on the case." Donovan raked her fingers through her knotty hair. "I mean, sure, he's been helpful with that last case, and he's offered his skills, but noooo..." She frowned crossly. "Just no. I don't think it's a good idea... at all."

Lestrade just stared at her. Donovan stared back expectantly.

"Well?" the cop spoke up impatiently when the silence stretched on. "Say something, Greg! Console me! I am emotionally compromised, Lestrade!"

Lestrade just raised an eyebrow at her exaggerated theatrics. "Be ri' back." he garbled and ran back into the bathroom. He reemerged a few moments later, sans toothbrush and foamy mouth. "So? You said he was helpful. What's the problem?"

Donovan jabbed a finger at him. "He's only helpful as long as he doesn't talk to anyone... at all."

Lestrade scrunched up his nose as he thought about that. "Well, his communication skills could use a little work..."

Donovan huffed. "'A little'? Try a lot. Nobody down in NSY wants to work with him, not even Dimmock. He just thinks it's a good idea to bring the Freak in before there are more casualties."

Lestrade furrowed his brows. "Sorry - sorry, 'Freak'?"

Donovan sucked in a breath. "He has a human leg in his bathtub." She announced.

Lestrade blinked, but otherwise, didn't react.

"And he beat a corpse in the morgue with a riding crop."

"Well, it takes all kinds." Lestrade responded quickly before Donovan could continue.

"Not to mention that my boss is a complete pushover and the Freak walks all over him." the sergeant continued, seething, beginning to rapid-fire away. "He introduces himself to the team by antagonizing every single one of them, withholds evidence, disregards the chain of command, doesn't cooperate with the police, and in the end gives us the name and description of our killer without explaining why or how he came to that conclusion. What are we supposed to say? 'We're arresting you because some Freak came, sniffed your sleeve, and decided it was you who-dun-it?"

She sucked in a deep breath at the end of her rant.

Lestrade patted her shoulder. "Breathe, Sally. Breathe."

"I mean, he's just egotistic like you wouldn't believe!" Donovan went on. "Yes, he's more observant and he's never been wrong so far, but he rubs our faces in it and expects us to tolerate him, and keep crawling back to him for scraps because he's 'better than us'. And he's just-... ugh!" She pressed her face into the cushion she had been previously torturing, and screamed.

Lestrade simply continued patting her shoulder and didn't say anything, half because he didn't know what to say to her, and because he didn't want to risk saying something wrong and the sergeant's wrath being turned on him.

"This is not something I want to deal with before a press conference." Donovan whimpered. "I _hate_ those!"

"You'll do fine." Lestrade said soothingly.

"If we don't, you can probably see it broadcasted in the news." Donovan muttered. "Everyone and their mums have been tuning into these recent suicides. The last thing we need is a PR nightmare plowing the already running train crash."

"You'll be fine." Lestrade repeated, more firmly this time. "Look. Deep breaths, good night's sleep, the coffee of gods tomorrow morning, you'll be fine. You'll see."

Donovan sighed and practically deflated under his hand. "I need a shower first." she mumbled, defeated.

"Always a good start." Lestrade smiled sympathetically.

"What would I do without you?" Donovan drawled wearily.

"Find someone else to bug." Lestrade shot back cheekily.

Donovan somehow found the strength to kick him.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Mrs. Hudson!" Lestrade called out when he walked through the door.<p>

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her flat and smiled at him. "Oh hello, Greg!" she greeted. "I was just about to have a cuppa, why don't you join me?"

"Sounds like a plan." Lestrade grinned.

"You don't have work today?" Mrs. Hudson asked him conversationally.

"That's the good thing about being self-employed." Lestrade winked. "You get to close shop _whenever you feel like it!_"

Mrs. Hudson giggled. "I'll get out another cup for you."

"Alright, just hold on." Lestrade told her. "I just want to pop in on Sherlock. Is he in?"

"Yes, you met him?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"A few times." Lestrade shrugged and jogged up the stairs to the second floor, Mrs. Hudson trailing behind absently.

He knocked on the upstairs flat door thrice sharply. "Special delivery for Sherlock Holmes!" he called out.

The door opened and a shorter, blond-headed man stood in the doorway. "Hello?"

"Oh! Hello there, you must be Sherlock's new flatmate." Lestrade grinned.

"I- I don't..." The man stammered. "Why do you think I'm the flatmate?"

"Clients don't usually open my door unless it's to leave." Sherlock responded from across the sitting room. "Who is it?"

Lestrade poked his head in. "Hey."

"Ah! Lestrade." Sherlock stood up from his seat. "What brings you here?"

"I heard from Donovan that you sabotaged her team's press conference and she's going to kill you." Lestrade responded with a casual shrug. "And Mrs. Hudson was complaining that you don't eat so I made you... stuff." He placed a plastic bag on the coffee table.

Sherlock stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Well, you have to eat it." Lestrade continued, pointing at the bag. "It's a gift."

"Why - why-...?" Sherlock grimaced.

"Because you'd be rude not to." Lestrade sighed and turned to John. "Do you believe this guy?"

"Who-...?" John shook his head. "Sorry. I'm John - John Watson."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Greg Lestrade."

They shook hands.

"He_ loves_ telling people how we met." Sherlock scoffed with a sarcastic smile.

"Well it's not everyday you find someone sleeping in your garbage." Lestrade shot back. "So, you're going to move in here?"

"Haven't actually decided, yet." John responded.

Just then, a police vehicle pulled up on the street outside and Donovan stalked into the flat.

"Hey, Donovan." Lestrade raised a hand in greeting.

"Hey Lestrade, what are you doing here?"

"Mrs. Hudson told me that her tenant hasn't eaten in three days, so I just came to see if he was dead, or not." Lestrade shrugged.

"Three days?" John looked incredulously at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged and turned to Donovan. "Fourth suicide?" he asked brusquely. "Where?"

"First of all, can I punch you once?" Donovan seethed back.

"Is this about the texts?" Sherlock asked. "This is about the texts, isn't it?"

"Are-..." John looked from Donovan, to Sherlock, and then to Lestrade. "Should we stop them?"

Lestrade shrugged and made himself comfortable. "I'm not risking getting involved."

"Thanks, Lestrade." Both Sherlock and Donovan responded. One sarcastic, and the other, not.

"Cat, meet dog." Lestrade shrugged.

Just then, Donovan's phone rang. "Sir? Yes. I'm there now... alright, alright!" She hung up and glowered at Sherlock. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. You don't really need to come."

"Nonsense." Sherlock smiled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Fine." Donovan rolled her eyes. "Right. Come along, then."

"What's so different about this one?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"A note." was all Donovan was willing to divulge. "Come on."

"Not in the police car, I'll be right behind." Sherlock waved her off.

Donovan rolled her eyes, gave a last parting wave to Lestrade, and disappeared.

When the woman detective was gone, John looked felt it safe to ask. "What's wrong with a police car?"

Lestrade let out an abrupt burst of startled laughter before quickly stifling it. Because, Sherlock in a police vehicle...

"Um..."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"Have they gone off, then, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked when Lestrade settled down in her sitting room.

"John and Sherlock?" Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah."

"Running off to see dead bodies like that, it's not healthy." the dotty little lady tutted.

"Well, that's why I'd rather stay here with you, and not muck about with them." Lestrade grinned back. "You make me as healthy as can be."

"Oh you...!" Mrs. Hudson slapped him lightly on the shoulder with a giggle.

Just then Lestrade heard the street door open and got up.

He poked his head out of Mrs. Hudson's door. "You forget something, Sher-...?"

Mycroft stopped quite suddenly in the doorway, looking mildly surprised to see him. "Oh, hello there."

"Oh hey, Mister Holmes." Lestrade greeted. "Sherlock just left."

"Is that so...?" Mycroft trailed off, looking thoughtful.

"Yup." Lestrade nodded awkwardly, suddenly realizing he really had no idea what else to say to the elder Holmes. He slipped back fully into Mrs. Hudson's flat. "What should I say?" he whispered to the landlady.

"Ask him to join us for tea." Mrs. Hudson suggested.

Lestrade popped his head back out. "Hey, we're just having a cuppa. You want to...?"

"No, thank you for the kind invitation." Mycroft declined politely, half smiling.

"Right." Lestrade nodded. "Busy man, you."

"Yes." Mycroft sighed deprecatingly. "Busy man, me."

They lapsed into an awkward silence.

"So!" Lestrade said suddenly. "Sherlock's got a prospective flatmate. Exciting news, yeah?"

"Oh yes, very." Mycroft responded. "I'm hoping everything will work out. Sherlock could use a keeper, God knows how he's survived so far."

Lestrade chuckled. "I can imagine." Then, he looked puzzled. "Wait, John said he wasn't sure yet, whether he'd move in. How did you-...?"

"Is he spying on his brother again?" Mrs. Hudson asked disapprovingly.

Lestrade turned to her. "He must be." He turned back to Mycroft. "Are you? You must be. Is this a regular thing with you Holmeses?"

"You're rambling, dear." Mrs. Hudson remarked informatively.

"Yes. Yes I am." Lestrade realized. "Sorry, I heard about it in passing from Sherlock, and Anthea, but it really didn't click then."

"You heard about it from Anthea?" Mycroft asked, suddenly intrigued. "I did not know you two were friendly."

"Oh, she stops by every now and then." Lestrade shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal.

"Really, now?" Mycroft droned, eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"Anthea has the emotional capacity of a stone." Mycroft deadpanned back.

"Says you." Lestrade responded flatly.

"It's just that she doesn't make friends easily." Mycroft explained. "She has the damnedest time remembering strangers."

"Well, she remembers you just fine." Lestrade pointed out.

"I'm not a man easily forgotten." Mycroft replied simply.

Lestrade grinned and let the silence answer for him.

"Well, I suppose in a different way..." Mycroft conceded with half a laugh.

"We all have our skills and talents." Lestrade shrugged. "Also, she's addicted to my demi-glace."

"I will be sure to try it out sometime." Mycroft replied.

"You know where to find me." Lestrade smiled.

"In all the places I do not expect you." Mycroft returned humorously.

"I decided not to work today!" Lestrade protested.

"Mister Lestrade, do not keep Mrs. Hudson waiting." Mycroft smiled. "The tea will get cold."

Lestrade nodded. "M'kay, see you around?"

"Undoubtedly."

* * *

><p>Lestrade was in the process of feeding the cat when Donovan rang.<p>

He balanced the bag of cat food on his hip and fumbled with his phone in his other hand. "Lestrade."

_"Sally."_ Donovan announced. _"I'm stuck."_

"What, where, why, and do I have to abandon the cat for this talk?" Lestrade asked, pouring out a portion of cat food into a tin bowl.

_"The Freak's gone and I can't find him."_ Donovan sighed._ "I mean, nothing new about that, but he was jumping around like a lunatic and going on about how the killer made a mistake. And now he's gone and he hasn't told us what's going on or what the mistake even was. He's not answering his phone and I have no idea where he's gone."_

She finished her rant and took a deep, desperate breath.

Lestrade waited for her to catch her breath. "Wait, so this serial suicide is shaping up to be a serial murder?"

_"Yes."_

"How did he figure that out?"

_"Because the victim's bag wasn't at the scene."_

"What bag?"

_"Exactly."_

Lestrade blew out a calming breath. "I can see how it can be stressing to work with him."

_"You think?"_ Donovan whined back.

"Sherlock has all your answers, doesn't he?"

_"Yep."_ Donovan sighed._ "I'm not looking for him for my own health, you know?"_

"Baker Street."

_"What?"_

Lestrade scratched behind the calico's ear as it chewed it's way through her meal. "Well, obviously, he went looking for the bag. He's a smart man, and when he _does_ find it, I don't think he'd be nice enough to cart it all the way down to Scotland Yard for you. It's probably at his flat so he'll probably be there, too."

There was a brief silence on the other end._ "Greg, this is why I always wonder how I became the sergeant, and you the restaurant owner."_

"The answer's obvious." Lestrade snorted. "You can't cook."

Donovan chuckled back and hung up after a quick thanks.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was out wandering the streets later that night when a car pulled up on the street beside him.<p>

He stopped.

"Mister Lestrade, out for a walk?" Mycroft asked, stepping out of the vehicle.

"Nice night for it." Lestrade smiled back. "You?"

"On my way back to the office." Mycroft replied.

"No rest for the wicked?" Lestrade joked.

"Quite right." Mycroft nodded. "Are you sure you should be out at this time of night?"

"If anyone tries to attack me, I can take care of myself." Lestrade assured him. "Did I tell you I have a black belt in Judo?"

"You did not." Mycroft responded. "And anyway, Judo will not be such a great match to, say, a gun."

"I suppose not." Lestrade shrugged, continuing his walk, Mycroft falling into step beside him, the black car trailing after them inch by inch like a stray dog.

The whole situation was a little surreal.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" Mycroft asked him. "Visiting a friend?"

"Eh..." Lestrade shrugged. "Just walking around. Sometimes, it's good to do that without any particular destination."

"You could end up in a very dangerous predicament with a mindset like that." Mycroft pointed out.

"Someone will find me, eventually." Lestrade shrugged. "Someone always does. I have good luck like that. You're here now, aren't you?"

"Yes..." Mycroft hummed. "You know, there was a shooting a few minutes ago, a few streets down. You should be more careful."

Lestrade looked shocked. "My God, really? I thought it was a backfire, or something." He looked concerned. "Was anybody hurt?"

"An unfortunate cabbie." Mycroft shrugged. "Luckily, the police are already there to handle the situation. You didn't see them pass by?"

Lestrade scratched his head. "No... can't say I did. I think I heard the sirens, though."

"And you still thought it was a simple backfire?" Mycroft huffed. "_Normal people!_ You have the strangest way of thinking."

"Oi now!" Lestrade protested. "There_ is_ such a thing called 'coincidence'!"

"A man such as I does not believe in such things." Mycroft told him.

"Well_ I_ do." Lestrade shrugged back.

"Yes, but I find that you're _too much_ of a coincidence." Mycroft declared.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "And... what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, let's start with your choice of friends and acquaintances coincidentally overlapping with Sherlock's."

"Overruled." Lestrade retorted. "I've been friends with Donovan and Molly since before they even_ met_ Sherlock, I'm actually a mate of Molly's brother. Mrs. Hudson was more of a recent find as I only recently met her through my neighbor's bridge contacts."

"Alright." Mycroft relented. "Let's talk about the coincidence of you running into us Holmeses everywhere we go."

"Also overruled." Lestrade said. "I don't actually know how I'm supposed to defend myself against that, but _that_ is definitely coincidence."

"Shall we move on to the coincidence of you just _happening_ to be taking a walk down the street from where tonight's shooting took place?" Mycroft asked.

"You're mad if you think I shot that cabbie." Lestrade grumbled.

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?"

"Mister Lestrade, all I said about the shooting was that it took place down the street a few minutes ago, a cabbie got shot, and that the police were handling the situation. I never said who shot whom, or that the police haven't caught the culprit." Mycroft pointed out.

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest.

But, suddenly, Mycroft was in his personal space, grabbing something out of Lestrade's inner jacket pocket.

"And let's also mention the coincidence of you witnessing the shooting with a camera at hand." Mycroft mocked. "With-... oh! A picture of our shooter. Quite the marksman, our John Watson, hm?"

"Give that back!" Lestrade snapped, holding out a hand expectantly.

"I don't think so." Mycroft said, holding the camera out of reach. "Who do you work for?"

"Give me my camera back, and maybe I'll tell you." Lestrade responded coolly.

Mycroft considered this for a moment before holding the camera out.

Lestrade suddenly grabbed the wrist holding the camera with one hand, the collar of Mycroft's suit jacket with the other, and Mycroft went flying over his shoulder in a rather beautiful throw.

Mycroft landed unceremoniously, a great 'whoosh' of air forcefully exiting his lungs, and Lestrade smoothed down his jacket with a huffy sigh. "Oh, did I mention I do Judo?"

Mycroft wheezed and rolled into a hasty stand. "Indeed you did." he coughed.

David and Anthea jumped out of the car, prepared to interfere.

"Oh, there's no need for that." Lestrade told them, holding his hands up. "I'm done here." He jabbed a finger at Mycroft. "And, I am a private investigator." he declared. "Got that?" He began walking away.

"Liar." Mycroft snapped at his retreating back.

"Not lying." Lestrade threw back without stopping.

"You are, you don't even have a license." the government agent grumbled.

"Not lying!" Lestrade repeated with a nasty grin that said that he was, in fact, lying. But wasn't about to admit it.

And then he was gone.

"Probably going home." Mycroft huffed, patting himself off. "Have a team get there before him. Intercept if he tries to run."

"Yes sir." Anthea responded crisply, already typing on her phone.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Any news on our 'private investigator'?" Mycroft asked the next day, sneering out the words that Lestrade had described himself as being.

"He's opened up shop." Anthea shrugged.

"Ugh, so carefree." Mycroft groaned, stretching and popping his sore back. "Ahh, much better. Perhaps I should drop by?"

"Perhaps." Anthea hummed. "Your brother will be there. Dr. Watson is forcing him out to eat."

"A fine opportunity to bother him about last night's shooting." Mycroft remarked.

"But please keep out of reach of the chef." Anthea called after him coolly. "We wouldn't want a repeat of last night, would we?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, sighed, and stretched his back again.

* * *

><p>"Oh hello, lovely day. How's your back?" Lestrade asked with a saccharine smile.<p>

So that was how he was going to play.

John looked up with mild curiosity. "What's wrong with your back?"

"Don't bother, John." Sherlock grumbled. "You don't want to get involved."

"I was a bit rough with him last night." Lestrade said casually.

John choked up his coffee. "What?"

Lestrade looked at him, snorted at his misunderstanding, and then deadpanned. "I shouldn't have thrown him down like that."

"Um..." John was at a loss as how to respond.

"I couldn't help myself." Lestrade went on. "He was being such a tease!"

"If you're _quite_ finished entertaining yourself at Dr. Watson's expense." Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "I'd like a coffee."

"Right, right." Lestrade rounded the counter to where the coffee machine was. "How do you want it?"

"Any way that will get me through dealing with you people." Mycroft sighed and sat down at the counter.

"Alcohol it is then." Lestrade smirked. "Lots of it."

"Do you really intend to be that much of a nuisance?" Mycroft despaired.

"You tried to steal my camera." Lestrade shot back. "Be glad I won't piss in your drink."

"You flatly lied to my face." Mycroft responded icily. "Be glad I didn't have you arrested."

"Arrest who?" Donovan asked, just coming down from the second floor flat. "Who lied?"

Everybody looked at Lestrade and Mycroft.

"Um..." Lestrade looked at Mycroft.

"Nothing of concern, Sergeant." Mycroft told her politely.

"They're having an argument." Sherlock told Donovan as he absently dissected his food and peered at the insides.

Donovan looked at Lestrade. "And you didn't call me?"

"What?" Lestrade asked her. "Why should I?"

"You don't understand." Donovan tutted. "You don't get angry, ever. As proof of that, you're friends with the Freak. This is a milestone." She patted her friend's shoulder. "Welcome to the Human Race."

"You need to wake up." Lestrade poked her forehead and gently pushed her away from his personal space. "You're talking nonsense."

Donovan stuck her tongue out. "Who's this?" She asked, looking at Mycroft. "And why does he know I'm a sergeant?"

"He's Sherlock's brother." Lestrade said. "His name is Mycroft Holmes."

"I am the polite one." Mycroft said, shaking Donovan's hand.

"He's very rude." Lestrade whispered loudly.

Mycroft looked at him.

"What? You think I wouldn't notice your boys hanging out down the street?" Lestrade shrugged.

"_What?_" Donovan snatched her hand away from Mycroft and stared at him suspiciously.

"I felt sorry for them, staking me out all night, so I made them some doughnuts." Lestrade said to Mycroft. "But I may have also drugged them."

"Like I said, maybe I should have you arrested." Mycroft sighed.

"Coffee?" Lestrade smiled innocently, placing a steaming mug in front of him.

Mycroft drank it anyway.

It was glorious coffee.

Donovan just stared at them both. "You are both _so_ weird."

* * *

><p>When Sherlock and John had left and Donovan went out for a shopping day with some girls, Mycroft finally got down to business.<p>

"So, Lestrade, what do you plan to do with the photos you took last night?" he asked.

Lestrade paused what he was doing and wiped his hands on a dish towel before deciding to light up a cigarette. "Dunno." he shrugged. "Probably erase them."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Think about it, what would I gain from those pictures?" Lestrade asked him.

"How should I know?" Mycroft sighed. "If you recall, I do not know various aspects of this situation."

"Like who I work for." Lestrade nodded. "But, you know, I'm a private detective and I have an obligation not to tell you who I'm working for."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Are we going to do this again?"

"Well, if you ask me a question you already know I'm going to lie about. Obviously, I'm not going to disappoint." Lestrade responded slowly. "And anyway, isn't it funner not knowing?"

"'Funner' is not a word I'd describe it as." Mycroft grunted at him drolly. "'Funner' isn't even a valid word."

Lestrade snorted out a plume of smoke, grinning. "I made you say 'funner'. Twice. It's more amusing when you say it because of all the posh." He scratched his cheek, muttering under his breath. "'Funner'... '_fu-nner_'... '_fun_-uh', how do you say that with such a straight face? For my next trick, maybe I should make you say 'comfy chairs'."

"If you could kindly get back on subject." Mycroft ground out.

"I'm not going to do anything with the pictures." Lestrade told him. "And neither do I intend to."

"Then, why did you take them?" Mycroft asked.

"Because that's my job." Lestrade shrugged.

"As a private investigator?" Mycroft droned.

"As a private investigator." Lestrade nodded back.

"You know I could make life horrid for you."

"I know you could, but is that something you want to risk?" Lestrade asked him pointedly. "Considering the fact that you don't know whether or not my employer has a higher authority than you do."

"And just how would you know my level of authority?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.

Lestrade smiled back and didn't reply.

"I don't mean you, or your brother, any ill will." he said once Mycroft got the point. "I'm just an observer who works for someone, who is someone important."

"I'm sure you can understand how that _might_ concern me." Mycroft said flatly.

"I don't care if you're concerned as long as you don't trouble me about it." Lestrade shrugged.

"How is that even possible?" Mycroft grumbled. "_You_ are my source of concern."

"Headspace!" Lestrade said suddenly, catching Mycroft off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"What was that quote that someone said?" Lestrade scratched his temple contemplatively. "Something like 'disliking someone is like letting that person take up headspace for free' or something."

"'Hanging onto resentment is letting someone you despise live rent-free in your head.'" Mycroft corrected him.

Lestrade snapped his fingers. "That's it! That's the quote. Anyway, my point is, I'm not going to get involved, or anything. Like I didn't get involved with last night's shooting episode. Well - I tried not to - you sort of dragged me into something of a bugger, didn't you? But the best thing you can do is ignore me."

"'Ignore you'?" Mycroft huffed. "You have the most aggravating tendency to be everywhere!"

Lestrade waved his hands in the air. "I am vague surroundings." he said convincingly. "Like Sherlock's wallpaper."

"Black fleur-de-lis bracketed by trellises on white." Mycroft shot back. "Not exactly a subject of subtlety."

"Background noises. Like the bell on my diner door."

"There is no bell on your door."

"What, really?" Lestrade got up and craned his neck to look. "Donovan knocked it off again? Could've sworn-..."

"It is a wooden wind chime." Mycroft cut him off archly. "That is _not_ how you use a wind chime."

"Same thing." Lestrade waved him off, unconcernedly.

"You should really get a proper bell."

"If it announces that someone opens the door, I approve." Lestrade huffed. "I've got to work on keeping the diner afloat before worrying about the trimmings!"

"It's not easy being a part-time 'private investigator'." Mycroft said, mock-sympathetically. "I was wondering about your choice of colour coordination." he said, looking around at the... personalized interior design.

Fire engine red sofas lined the walls with bamboo wicker-backed chairs standing opposite the tables.

"Well, all the chairs were bought cheap at a second hand store. And the walls were painted with whatever colours I had in abundance." Lestrade told him.

"Which would explain why one wall is yellow, another green, the third an off-white, and the counter wall is wood-paneled." Mycroft tutted disapprovingly.

"And my flooring is grey linoleum with black flecks." Lestrade rolled his eyes as he extinguished his cigarette. "I know how my diner is laid out."

"It is horrid." Mycroft told him firmly. "You should redecorate."

"If you don't like it, you don't have to come." Lestrade pointed out.

"The coffee is acceptable." Mycroft shrugged. "Also, you shouldn't wear that apron."

Lestrade looked down at the blue apron hanging around his waist. "Why?"

"Blue is an unappetizing colour."

"It was an opening gift from Mrs. Hathaway!"

"You shouldn't rely so on other people's charity." Mycroft admonished.

"Well, if people give me stuff, I _am_ going to use them." Lestrade huffed.

Mycroft turned and looked over the diner's interior thoughtfully.

"Please stop redecorating my diner in your head." Lestrade sighed, annoyed.

"If not for your acquaintance with my brother..." Mycroft began.

"And my godlike coffee." Lestrade added.

"I wouldn't be caught dead in this place." Mycroft finished. "Why only two round tables? Just make them_ all_ square, already. And why do you always have a single chair standing up against the wall with no table?"

"I don't believe in round tables unless there are an odd number in a group." Lestrade shrugged. "I'm a square tables man. And also, that chair is reserved for a very prolific patron."

Mycroft looked at him, eyebrow raised.

Just in time, a rather disheveled-looking calico cat pranced in from the streets, deposited a dead bird on the doorstep, and made herself at home on the chair, curling up and promptly falling asleep.

Mycroft shook his head. "This diner...!" he marveled. "How do you survive?"

Lestrade just shrugged. "Luck?"

"Oh, dear Lord." Mycroft dropped his head in his hand.

Lestrade laughed.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The next day, a few blocks down from the diner, Donovan saw Lestrade sitting on the street curb in his pyjama-drawstrings and a jumper.

She stopped the car and powered down the window, poking her head out. "What are you doing out here in your pyjamas?" she asked him, wondering if she would be better off not knowing the answer.

The shocked/miserable/mildly-catatonic look on Lestrade's face only solidified her worries.

"I got kicked out." Lestrade said dumbly, rolling around a piece of stray concrete on the ground with his toe.

"What? Why?" Donovan snapped.

Lestrade looked at her owlishly. "I don't know how to break this to you kindly, Donovan, but there seems to be a bulldozer in my diner."

"What."

"Bulldozer. In. My Diner." Lestrade enunciated slowly. "As in, the ground floor of our flat. As in."

"Why?" was Donovan's next question.

"Because they said it was an accident. The bulldozer mysteriously went out of control and demolished my diner." Lestrade mumbled.

"Do you think it wasn't an accident?" Donovan asked, legitimately worried.

"That this happens the day after Mycroft and I discuss my awesome interior design?" Lestrade drawled. "Probably not accident."

"You could probably have him arrested." Donovan told him.

"You know that's not going to happen." Lestrade responded. "You're not even bothering to sound like you think anything's going to come of it."

"I work with his brother." Donovan sighed. "And, if you recall, I _have_ met Mycroft Holmes. I've done a little homework on him."

"Well..." Lestrade raised his hands, palms raised upward. "What does he expect me to do now? You know, other than kill him the next time I see him."

"Dunno." Donovan said slowly, looking in the direction of their flat. "But we should probably think of something quick because he's coming down the road."

Lestrade jumped to his feet and picked up the piece of broken concrete he had been nudging around. "Five seconds to give me a good reason not to throw this at him." he murmured. "Go."

"Um, um, he's a really scary superspy that's going to kill the Hell out of you." Donovan suggested. "Uh... you're too mature for that - wait, no you're not. He works somewhere really high up in the government... Hm... he's actually kinda... cute?"

That derailed Lestrade violently enough for him to drop his rock and stare at her incredulously.

Mycroft took that opportunity to join them. "Good evening." he greeted them.

Lestrade shook himself out of whatever shock he was in and turned to Mycroft. "I want to throw things maliciously at you and maybe kill you just a little bit, but Donovan thinks you're cute. My last line of defense against the world has turned against me. Good day, I think I just need to to cry for a minute." he said dumbly and wandered off to find his cat.

Donovan snickered at his retreating back, then she turned back toward Mycroft, all serious now. "Seriously though, we're going to kill you. That was my flat, too, you know."

"Have no fear." Mycroft said to her calmly. "I have a very skilled accident-prone bulldozer driver. There was only damage to the front and main room of the diner, the second floor was entirely untouched."

"Hmm, a very skilled accident-prone driver, huh?" Donovan drawled. "I'm still going to kill you. That is, if Lestrade doesn't get to you first. You know, I've never seen him angry at anybody before and suddenly you waltz into his life and he's turned into an axe murderer."

Lestrade returned with the rowdy cat in his arms. "You two done flirting?" he asked, hugging the feline to his chest. "I've got no shoes on and no shirt under my jumper, it's freezing, I'm going to die."

"Oh, do stop being so melodramatic." Mycroft admonished. "Anyway, I just came to tell you that the upstairs flat is untouched, so you may as well hop in and get dressed properly."

"'Oh, do stop being so melodramatic.'" Lestrade mimicked in a rather good impression. "I'll show _you_ melodrama."

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'll reimburse you for everything." he promised.

Donovan looked at Mycroft, eyebrow arched. "'Everything'?"

Mycroft surreptitiously glanced away. "Well, except for those ghastly chairs, the wall paint, the wind chime, and that horrid blue apron."

"It was a _gift!_" Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated.

"It frankly wasn't even a flattering colour." Mycroft huffed.

"And there's nothing wrong with a wind chime ringing over a door."

"It didn't 'ring' it 'clanked'." Mycroft corrected, aghast. "It was wooden and it sounded like claves. I'm buying you a bell, and that is final."

Lestrade frowned at him.

"Consider it a gift." Mycroft smiled at him. "You would be compelled to use it, no?"

Lestrade's frown turned into a glare.

"You'd be rude not to." Mycroft reminded sweetly.

"I hate you." Lestrade responded with feeling.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was looking over furniture sales online and chewing on a smouldering cigarette when Donovan dropped in with the news.<p>

"Sherlock Holmes is a criminal." she declared.

Lestrade grunted but didn't look up from his laptop. "Okay."

"Not okay!" Donovan exclaimed, exasperated. "He impersonated and broke into a bloke's flat today!"

Lestrade finally looked up. "As opposed to climbing up into Mister Bunter's flat to steal his shoes and get him off a murder charge?" he said flatly.

"Only, this time there was actually a murdered man in the flat he broke into." Donovan sighed heavily.

"Whodunit?" Lestrade asked.

"Don't know yet." Donovan collapsed on the couch and pressed her hands to her tired eyes. "The Freak was investigating something and it led to him breaking into this Van Coon's flat and finding him dead. The investigation is still ongoing but we can't, for the love of God, find the killer's entry or exit point and it's killing me!"

Lestrade patted her shoulder. "There, there."

She sighed. "What's going on with you?"

"Just looking at chairs, and tables, and lights, and wall paints..." Lestrade smudged his cigarette out and rubbed his eyes. "I'm dying of boredom."

"Is this all on Mister Holmes's tab?" Donovan asked.

"Yup."

"Let me help. We can make a dent in his savings."

"I wish. We can try, but we probably wouldn't even scratch the surface." Lestrade sighed. "But yeah, help me out here. You can choose the chairs."

"Gotcha. What about these hot pink Barbie chairs?"

"Hell no."

"It would go great with the My Little Pony themed tablecloths."

"Get out of here! And since when did we decide on tablecloths? We're not the bloody Ritz, Jesus!"

* * *

><p>"So?" Mycroft grumbled, looking unimpressed. "What on earth are we doing down here?"<p>

Lestrade led the way, weaving in and out of random stalls, dodging people in the crowded street. "I'm down here because I know a guy who sells good quality rip-offs for cheap. I don't believe in wasting money for nothing, even if it's just to piss you off._ You're_ here because you're paying and I want to see you suffer in one of the loudest, and possibly tackiest area of the city. Also, Anthea told me it was your day off." Lestrade spread his arms out in a grand gesture. "Welcome to Chinatown."

"Wonderful." Mycroft sighed in a very put-upon way. They jostled through a group of old men firing off impatient-sounding Cantonese. "Lovely. Oh God, what is that smell?" Mycroft looked aghast.

Lestrade grinned. "That would be durian." He gently guided Mycroft past the fruit stalls and deeper into the myriad of foreign population.

"You cannot possibly fathom how much I hate you." Mycroft declared vehemently as they pushed/dodged/stumbled through the neighborhood. It was a very elegant dance that only Lestrade seemed to master.

"Come on, Mister Holmes." Lestrade laughed. "It's all a part of the experience! Bet you've never done this before."

"Obviously." Mycroft shuddered. "And never will I again."

"Well then, it's good that I'm here to witness the once and only." Lestrade joked as he ducked into a tiny little shop burdened down with various objects of merchandise hanging from the doorframe. "Hello?"

"Oh dear." Mycroft sighed. "I think I'll just wait out here. I hardly think there's enough space in that little shop for two."

"Nonsense." Lestrade laughed, poking his head back out. "It's just a little tight."

"Oh, hello."

They both turned to see a very bewildered John Watson observing the scene with a notebook in hand.

"Dr. Watson." Mycroft greeted with a grimacing smile.

"Hey, John." Lestrade waved casually. "You out shopping?"

"No I'm-..." John gestured toward the book in hand. "I was... just running an errand."

"For Sherlock's most recent case, no doubt?" Mycroft remarked.

"Yeah."

"What case?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"Two murders and a case of horrid graffiti." Mycroft sighed. "If my brother doesn't solve the most obvious answers to this case by sundown, I will be very disappointed."

"What's the most obvious answers?" John asked. "I mean, it would take a whole lot shorter if you just told me."

"Nonsense." Mycroft huffed. "Sherlock wouldn't take tidbits from me." He looked at Lestrade. "And it's a part of the experience." he said in a 'if I must suffer, so must he' tone.

Lestrade snorted.

"Fine." John sighed. "What are you two doing here? I didn't know you were friends. You looked more like you were sort of..." He made vague and uncomfortable gestures between the two of them. "... At odds."

"We're buying furniture." Lestrade announced before Mycroft could say anything.

A cheeky grin, a frustrated glare, and confused looks all went around.

"I can't tell if you're joking, or not." John sighed.

"I'm not." Lestrade told him. "We_ are_ buying furniture, but it's for my diner. I like joking around because it annoys Mister Holmes."

"You are also right." Mycroft told John. "We _are_ at odds."

"We spend our days thinking up new and imaginative ways to torment each other." Lestrade told him. "The most recent is Mycroft 'accidentally' bulldozing my diner because my interior design offended him personally... which brings us to buying new stuff and me dragging him along to torment him."

"You-...?" John shook his head. "Christ, was anybody hurt?"

"Nope." Lestrade shrugged. "But I'm out of business for a few days."

"Sorry to hear that." John said sympathetically. "Anyway, I've got to go..."

"Investigate Mister Lukis's last actions prior to his murder." Mycroft finished. "We shan't keep you waiting. And congratulations on your new job."

John opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish, wondering how Mycroft knew what he knew, before he shook his head and simply accepted that he knew what he knew.

"Okay, bye."

"See you!" Lestrade waved. When John was gone, he turned to Mycroft. "Case?"

"The murders of two smugglers. One of them stole from the Black Lotus Tong and now both of them are dead." Mycroft shrugged. "A simple case, really. Honestly, Sherlock should have deduced the code by now."

Lestrade nodded slowly, not really understanding the simplicity of the case that Mycroft seemed to see, but nodding anyway. Then, he smiled. "Told you the meeting thing is coincidental." he said, pointing down the street where John had disappeared.

"A most alarming realization." Mycroft drawled. "How do you do it?"

Lestrade snorted. "By luck."

"Then, you must be the luckiest man in the world."


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

For the first time in weeks, the Strangers Cafe was open.

Donovan walked in the newly furnished front door, ringing the doorbell at least once or twice, pleased at the change.

Bells really were nicer than wooden wind chimes.

She sauntered through the lovely wooden chairs and tables. Square ones with two round tables in the back because Lestrade said so. The floor was now a creme colour with checkers, the walls were a warm yellow, and all four the same colour.

It looked... nice. Professional. And a little bit stylish. Donovan liked the framed pictures on the walls. Nice touch.

The sergeant found her flatmate sitting dismally at one of the tables with his face planted firmly into the smooth wooden table top.

"What's wrong?" Donovan asked. "Thought you might be more excited to open up shop again."

Lestrade threw his hands up without ever lifting his head and made a 'pfff!' noise.

"Look at this place!" he said. "_Look_, Donovan!"

Donovan looked around again and belatedly noticed the new ceiling lamps. "It's nice." she hummed approvingly.

Lestrade lifted his head miserably. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. "And now I'll have to actually make a serious effort to run it! I might even have to hire help... help that is_ people_! And I'd have to pay them, and teach them how to work in my diner, and they'd_ touch my coffee machine!_"

"I can see how that would be a terrifying thought." Donovan said with a snort. "Look, just run the store normally and see if more customers come in. Figure out something then, okay?"

"Okay." Lestrade groaned.

The doorbell chimed, startling them.

Anthea walked in. "Hello, are you open?"

Lestrade smiled. "You're my first customer."

Anthea smirked back.

"Yes, yes I am."

And Hell if she didn't plan it that way.

* * *

><p>Donovan was upstairs sleeping after closing the Blind Banker Case and Lestrade was left with Anthea.<p>

"Actually, I didn't just come here to be your first customer." Anthea confessed as she laid her silverware down on her plate.

Lestrade glanced over at her from behind the counter and raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"

Anthea got up and left her table, walking over to him. "I came to talk to you about something important."

"I'm all ears." Lestrade drawled. "Why the mystery?"

"It's..." Anthea fell silent for a moment. "Mister Holmes doesn't know about this, and neither will he. This is something that has never happened in all my years working with him."

Lestrade waited for her to continue.

"I was contacted by your... employers." Anthea told him uncomfortably.

A smile slowly broke out across Lestrade's face and he grinned. "Welcome to the club." he said sympathetically.

"They have explained the situation to me. They have a new mission for you..."

* * *

><p>Later that day, Anthea placed a file on Mycroft's desk.<p>

Mycroft looked up. "What is this, Anthea?"

"Gregory Lestrade's full file, Sir." Anthea told him. "The previous one was... censored and most bits were cut out for security reasons. As always, de-classifying files are difficult to manage without stepping on toes."

"I had noticed." Mycroft huffed. "I'm not an idiot. Which was it? MI6? 5?"

"MI5." Anthea reported crisply.

"So, what did he do for them, I wonder?" Mycroft hummed under his breath, flicking through the pages. "And why have you brought this to me now?"

"Actually, the file was passed on to me by..." Anthea swallowed and soldiered on. "... Mister Lestrade's employers."

Mycroft looked up so quickly that his neck popped. "What!"

"They said it was in all our best interests if you were not made available to the knowledge of who they are, yet." Anthea continued. "In my personal opinion, I agree."

"And you think I should as well?" Mycroft asked her scathingly.

"No, I'm not saying that." Anthea shook her head. "I'm just saying that you may not like the answer. And, Mister Lestrade was right when he said he, and his employers, mean you or Sherlock no harm. On the contrary, he is on your proverbial side. And as such, his employers advised that he be taken on as a freelance agent, seeing as he is already familiar to Sherlock and the people he is acquainted with."

"Who, Anthea?" Mycroft asked impatiently.

Anthea took in a deep breath. "I can't say, Sir."

Mycroft stared at her. "You _do_ know who you work for." he said warningly.

"I realize that this crosses the line of insubordination, but I really cannot say." Anthea said tonelessly. "And, believe me when I say that I don't want to, but Lestrade was right when he spoke of a higher power."

"Goddammit, Anthea, there _is no_ higher power!" Mycroft snapped. "Other than the Queen and a select few others, and I know it's not them because I've asked."

"Exactly why that fact should narrow down your suspect list considerably, Sir." Anthea hinted.

Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands. "You're just messing around with me, aren't you?"

"I wish I was, Sir."

"Was this Lestrade's idea?"

"You give him too much credit." Anthea smiled a little. "He is actually also under orders not to tell you."

"You know who he works for."

"Yes, Sir."

"And you believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing bad will come of this... deprivation of knowledge?"

"Without a doubt, Sir. But, in the circumstances, you are welcome not to believe my word." Anthea told him.

"No, I trust your judgement." Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

"Am I out of a job, Sir?" Anthea asked with the same cool expression as always.

"No, as surprising as that decision may be, I can't find a decent enough PA on such short notice." Mycroft sighed.

"Thank you, Sir." Anthea nodded crisply. "And, on another note, Mister Lestrade is already on his first mission on our behalf." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "He is tracking down General Shan of the Black Lotus Tong. Sherlock, and Lestrade's employers, seemed disappointed that she had escaped."

"Is he now?" Mycroft sighed. "You _do_ work quickly."

"His employers are very efficient people." Anthea shrugged.

"If Sherlock cannot find General Shan, how could_ he?_" Mycroft asked.

"He worked for MI5." Anthea reminded. "And he works in different circles from Sherlock."

"Of course he does." Mycroft sighed, resuming his poring over Lestrade's file. "Quite the character, our Mister Lestrade. Ran away from home, joined the military, got drafted into MI5, slipped away, joined the police academy, mysteriously quit, and suddenly showed up opening a cafe."

"Quite the character, indeed." Anthea agreed.

* * *

><p>Mycroft visited the Strangers Cafe a few days later and found Lestrade leaning on the counter, back to the door, preoccupied by something. It was quite late and there were no customers.<p>

Mycroft swung the door back and forth gently a few times, ringing the bell a second time.

Lestrade jumped a little and subtly slipped something into his pocket before turning around. "Hello! Wel-... oh, hello Mister Holmes."

"Mister Lestrade." Mycroft greeted back, walking over to the counter. "It seems we are going to be working together."

"Don't sound so down." Lestrade encouraged.

"I do not act on someone else's orders." Mycroft grumbled. "Much less when I do not know where the Hell the orders are coming from."

"Believe me, you'll feel stupid when you find out." Lestrade chuckled.

"God help me if it turns out to be Sherlock." Mycroft deadpanned, knowing full well that wasn't the case.

"Not a chance!" Lestrade laughed.

"How are you on the Black Lotus Tong front?" Mycroft asked, changing the subject.

Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out an origami black lotus. "I took a few liberties and snooped around in the circus General Shan and the assassin - Zhi Zhu - used as cover. General Shan is dead. She was found dead, shot in the head by a sniper rifle. I had 'friend of a friend' clean everything up."

"Do we know who did it?" Mycroft asked him.

"Not by a long shot." Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. "I did find some interesting e-mails on her computer, though."

"Oh?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"Some clever bloke she was in contact with, who I think got the Black Lotus Tong passage to England. Mentioned something about General Shan's actions not being led back to this mysterious 'M'." Lestrade shrugged. "Last person to chat with her before she died."

They both lapsed into a grim, thoughtful silence. Then, Lestrade suddenly slammed his hands down on the counter loudly, making Mycroft jump. "Now, do you want some coffee?"

Mycroft stared at him.

Lestrade stared back.

"You are so delightfully odd." Mycroft said finally.

"I'll take that as 'black, two sugars, and a dash of alcohol'."

"Yes please."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

It was three hours past closing time a few days later, and there were still lights on inside the Strangers Cafe.

"See here. Just a nice, bright smile." Lestrade said, pointing at his own face. "Crinkle your eyes a little around the edges, show a little teeth."

Anthea did so.

"Alarming." Lestrade decided at length.

"What are we doing?" Donovan asked, walking into the diner and throwing herself into a chair, draping her sensible black shoulder bag onto a second seat.

"Anthea says people run screaming when she smiles." Lestrade replied. "And she's right."

"Nah, shut up." Donovan flapped her hand at Anthea. "Demure, sly half smiles are the way to go. You have a face for it. Men go for that stuff."

"In my experience, men go for anything, really." Anthea drawled.

"Oh my God, next you're gonna compare sex stories, drink cosmos, and braid each others' hair." Lestrade despaired, throwing his hands up.

Donovan laughed. "Aren't you the food expert? You get to mix."

"I've been in the kitchen all day!" Lestrade complained. "_You_ mix. I can _totally_ handle Anthea's hair!"

"No way!" Donovan laughed. "You can't even make a pony out of my tail!"

"Because your hair is-...!" Lestrade made a gesture with his hands and Anthea couldn't tell whether he was miming a volcano, or a smokestack. Then, he pointed at Anthea's head. "Trust me, I can actually do this."

Donovan looked over at Anthea. "Has he been drinking?" she asked seriously.

"Just a tipple." Anthea responded with a smile.

"Yeah, I don't know what the Hell you found and put in my drink, but wow..." Lestrade made a show of leaning on the counter and fanning his face.

"Oh my God." Donovan looked between Anthea and Lestrade. "You two started drinking without me? How dare you!"

"We needed to get drunk as quickly as possible." Anthea sighed.

"Work woes, apparently." Lestrade added.

"Hers?" Donovan asked. "Or yours."

"They're a bit..." Anthea grimaced. "They overlap a little."

"Holmes problems." Lestrade flapped a hand in a 'don't worry' way. "Come on, Sally, you're here now. Let's make this a real party!"

Donovan sighed.

"I'm all in."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Lestrade heard his phone ring on the counter and had to stagger his way unsteadily to it and picked it up.<p>

"Lestrade." he announced, glancing over at Donovan and Anthea. "Oh my God, you look like a chocolate soft cream top, how does your hair _do_ that?"

_"Excuse me?"_ John asked, nonplussed.

"Oh sorry, no I wasn't talking to you." Lestrade laughed, mouthing 'Watson' to Donovan and Anthea. Both nodded, giggling slightly. "What's going on?"

_"Uh... was just thinking of getting out of the flat."_ John sighed._ "Sherlock hasn't had a decent case in days and he's taken to abusing the walls. I was just calling to ask if you wanted to pop by a pub or something, but I get the vague feeling I'm a bit late for that."_

Lestrade snorted. "It's okay, I'm at my place with Anthea and Donovan. We've still got alcohol and we could always use another pair of hands to control Donovan's hair."

_"I don't know about braiding hair, but count me in."_ John decided.

"We're just about to gossip. You could be our sassy hetro friend."

That drew a laugh. _"I'll be there in a few."_

"We'll be waiting."

* * *

><p>"Jesus Christ!" was the first thing John said, walking into the diner. "Are those cornrows?"<p>

Donovan looked hollowly up from under Anthea and Lestrade's hands, picking and pulling at her scalp like monkeys. "And neither of them are sympathetic to the fact that I still have to go to work tomorrow." She said this with the tone of a person who had given their all to prevent the inevitable, gave up eventually, and now let this depravity happen with a sort of defeated acceptance.

"Shh." Lestrade cooed sweetly. "It'll be awesome. I told you I could do it."

Anthea let out the most elegant and ladylike giggle/snort that John had ever heard.

"Wow, you really weren't kidding about the braiding hair stuff." John said with a morbid fascination, watching the strips of black and scalp-white wind their way down Donovan's head.

"I'm_ never_ kidding about the braiding stuff." Lestrade replied soberly.

"Well, if you don't mind, I'm just going to help myself to your stash of alcohol." John announced as he walked over to the counter where he found several empty bottles.

"Go ahead." Donovan sighed when the other two did not answer, too concentrated on not messing up their masterpiece.

"Thanks."

"I've been meaning to ask something. "Anthea said, speaking for the first time since John arrived. "Your cat, it's not a stray anymore if it's yours. And does she have a name?"

"Well, I've been putting off naming her until I knew for certain that she wasn't someone's pet." Lestrade shrugged. "It's been months since then. I call her 'Cat'."

Donovan snorted. "Could say it's short for 'Kate' or 'Catherine'."

"Kate _is_ short for Katherine, dumbo." Lestrade chortled back.

"Where did you find her, anyway?" Anthea asked.

"She found me!" Lestrade exclaimed. "She suddenly started showing up here and never left."

"Kind of like everybody else in your life." Donovan joked.

"I've got a magnetic personality." Lestrade gave a thumbs up. "They just can't stay away."

"Where did you two meet?" John asked, halfway through a beer.

"Us?" Lestrade asked, segwaying a finger between himself and Donovan.

"Police Academy." Donovan answered. "He dropped out, for some god awful reason, to open up this diner."

"Really?" John looked slightly surprised. "You wanted to become a policeman?"

"Almost did, too." Donovan nodded. "Claimed the best scores in class. Would probably be Detective Inspector by now, if not, DCI. Our instructors had high hopes for him."

"Wow, why didn't it happen?" John asked curiously.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a rebel."

"Oi now, I thought your reasoning back then was 'just because'." Donovan exclaimed with a chuckle.

"I get classier by the day." Lestrade saluted back unsteadily, nearly scratching out his eye. "Jesus."

"Ugh, I feel like puking." Donovan groaned.

Anthea just sat primly with the serenity of angels.

John just sat back and sort of watched the threesome. This was more fun than watching sit-coms on the telly.

Suddenly, Anthea's phone buzzed and she merely lowered her eyes to look at it. Then, she sighed.

"That doesn't sound good." Lestrade said.

"My boss doesn't have a life." Anthea replied frankly and began typing back with a lightning speed that would surprise most. Shocking, even, if they knew she had been drinking.

She didn't even make a single mistake. Not that Lestrade was peeking or anything.

Anthea looked up sharply at him as if she could hear his thoughts.

Okay, he was totally peeking.

"It might have something to do with you." Anthea told him quietly.

Donovan picked up on that. "Why?"

"Insurance mumbo-jumbo." Lestrade lied without missing a beat. "Just tying up all the loose ends of him bulldozing this diner."

Anthea looked over at him, eyebrow rising in mild admiration. "Glad to see you've still got your wits about you."

"Wits are overrated." Lestrade waved her off. "I want to watch a Disney movie."

Donovan burst out laughing.

Halfway through some musical number, Lestrade went to the bathroom and Anthea went to refresh their drinks.

They met in the kitchens with the secrecy of adulterous lovers.

"Are you familiar with the name 'Andrew West'?" Anthea asked quietly.

"Andy?" Lestrade scratched his head. "Yeah, he's one of Six's blokes, isn't he? He's a blabbermouth. I've met him once or twice while I was in Five."

"He's dead."

Lestrade paused and looked at her critically. "You just made me speak ill of the dead."

"Yeah, I didn't mean to."

"Alright, but what does Mycroft want done about it?"

"Do you know about the Bruce-Partington Project?" Anthea asked, point blank.

"Yeah, everyone who is anybody knows." Lestrade shrugged. "Like I said, Andy was a blabbermouth."

"And you said you only saw him once or twice when you were in MI5." Anthea smirked back.

"Yeah, I said that." Lestrade smiled unapologetically.

"You are such a liar." Anthea hummed approvingly.

"I'm one of Five's." Lestrade pointed out.

"My boss has made the decision to enlist his brother to solve the murder, he wants the USB with the plans back ASAP." Anthea told him. "It's gone missing from West's flat."

"So? Just make Sherlock get it." Lestrade said.

"You know Sherlock." Anthea sighed. "He only cares about the puzzles. There's no guarantee what he'll do about the plans, if he does anything about them at all."

"Right. Okay." Lestrade shrugged. "So I get to play reverse hide-and-seek with Sherlock?"

"That's the game."

"Well, it's a great game." Lestrade grinned in anticipation.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

The 'gas explosion' across the street from 221b Baker Street was the perfect excuse to go visit.

Lestrade bypassed the firemen on scene with a slight smile and a wave. He wasn't visiting the site of the explosion after all. He shouldered his way through the front door and was nearly barreled over by Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson." he greeted. "Are you okay?"

"Just a few glass shards in my sitting room, dearie, it'll be fine." Mrs. Hudson waved his concern off, sounding more upset than frightened. "I wasn't even in the room. I was on the stairs, safe and sound."

"Thank God for small mercies."

"Sherlock was just complaining about the peace and calm moments before the explosion." Mrs. Hudson tutted disapprovingly. "He's not so bored now."

"I'll bet." Lestrade nodded soberly. "Cookies?"

"I'd love some."

"I'm just going to pop in on John and Sherlock, were they hurt?"

"No, thank God." Mrs. Hudson sighed with relief. "John was out with a girl, see?" A slight giggle. "It's nice to be young. And Sherlock can survive mostly anything."

Lestrade chuckled. "Okay then, I'll be upstairs. Holler if you need something."

"Of course, dearie."

Lestrade jogged up the steps two at a time.

"Don't make me order you." said a condescending voice that could only belong to one person on earth.

"I'd like to see you try." And that would be the brother.

Lestrade walked in. "Hello." he said to Sherlock. "Hello." he said to Mycroft. "Hey John, I heard you were out with a lady last night. Well done. Am I interrupting something?"

"Kind of, yeah." John said unsurely.

"Well, if you're going to do something bad, you might as well do it spectacularly." Lestrade shrugged. "Should I leave?"

"Oh no, I was just on my way out." Mycroft told him before looking back at his brother. "Do think it over, will you?" He turned and shook John's hand. "Goodbye, John. See you very soon."

John grunted back.

"Mister Lestrade."

Sherlock began torturing his violin, possibly to speed the process of elimination of their numbers along. Lestrade stuffed a finger into one ear and shook Mycroft's hand with his other.

"See you, Mister Holmes."

The door swung shut behind the government official.

Lestrade unplugged his ear and turned back. "Came to extend his condolences to the poor windows?"

John snorted. "I wish."

"He wants me on a case." Sherlock drawled out, absently tapping his violin strings with his bow.

It made an atrocious 'zing, zing' noise.

"Exciting news, Mrs. Hudson said you were bored. Now you've got an explosion, _and_ a case." Lestrade said dryly. "You must be over the moon."

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he picked it up.

"And now Dimmock is calling. Today must be my lucky day."

* * *

><p>Donovan stalked into the diner and flipped the 'Open' sign on the door to 'Closed', and locked the door. Then, she hopped onto one of the counter stools and leveled an intense look at Lestrade.<p>

Lestrade stared back. "You know, there are people eating in here. They need to get out sometime."

"Shush. I demand to tell you about my day." Donovan growled.

Lestrade tossed the dish towel he had been drying coffee mugs with over his shoulder and leaned against the other side of the counter. "Okay."

"I'm worried." Donovan began.

"About?"

Donovan swallowed. "A package came in, today, addressed to the Freak."

"Came in, as in, to the station?"

"Yup." Donovan sighed. "It was a phone."

"Thoughtful of the sender." Lestrade remarked.

"It isn't a laughing matter." Donovan snapped. "There's a hostage on the other end of the line. Someone is controlling her. The Freak has a couple of hours to solve a case or she's going to die."

Lestrade paused. "Wait, you're talking in present tense."

"She's still alive. But she's still there." Donovan told him grimly.

"Well, you know Sherlock. He'll solve the case." Lestrade said to her reassuringly.

"That's not what I'm worried about." Donovan sighed. "The Freak investigates cases for dead people. Never when they're still alive. This criminal... I don't know, it feels like he's the kind of unstable person who doesn't need a reason to kill. The Freak is involved. He's leading the investigation this time around. How many reasons do you think he'd give? He's never been in a hostage case before, and I'm worried."

"Well..." Lestrade said slowly. "John's there. And you're there. I don't know about this Dimmock Inspector because I've never met him yet, but he'll be there too. You guys keep a sharp eye on proceedings, yeah?"

Donovan nodded. "Yeah."

"And on him."

"I'm sure John can take care of that."

Lestrade snorted. "And tell Dimmock to get his ass over here sometime, or I'm going over there."

"Please! Anything but that!" Donovan begged with a small smile.

Lestrade grinned back. "Lunch?"

"And then back into the fray." Donovan sighed.

* * *

><p>"Hello, anybody in?" Lestrade called out, poking his head into the labs at Bart's.<p>

He caught sight of Molly giggling quietly by one of the computers with a rather ordinary looking fellow. Probably a friend.

"Hey."

Molly looked up and smiled. "Hey, Greg."

The man looked up, his dark, hollow-ish eyes taking him in up an down once before returning his attention back to Molly.

"This is Jim." Molly introduced them. "He works in IT."

"Hullo." Jim greeted casually.

"Hey, I'm Greg." Lestrade walked over and shook his hand.

It was cold as ice. It felt like a dead thing.

Lestrade looked up in slight surprise and Jim caught his look before smiling self-deprecatingly and sticking both hands into his trouser pockets.

"What's up?" Lestrade asked, turning back to Molly.

"Oh, nothing much. Just looking at cat pictures." Molly blushed.

"Toby's going to feel hurt that you're cheating on him!" Lestrade joked.

"They're just pictures, I can look as long as I don't touch." Molly giggled back.

Lestrade turned to Jim. "Her cat - Toby - hates me."

"I've met him." Jim grinned back. "He seems nice."

"That's because you don't smell like you've been marked by some other feline." Molly pointed out.

"Well, anyway, I was just passing by. Dropped in on Sherlock and John a few minutes ago." Lestrade shrugged. "They looked busy."

"Sherlock?" Jim spoke up, looking at Molly. "Isn't that-...?"

"Yes." Molly quickly cut in before Jim could finish his sentence. "You want to meet him?"

"Sure." Jim shrugged.

"Well, we're going upstairs then." Molly said to Lestrade.

"Don't be so surprised, or hurt, if Sherlock doesn't give you the time of day." Lestrade said. "Just warning you."

"Okay, bye!" Molly waved.

"Well, it was nice to meet you." Jim shook his hand again with his icy hands. "...Greg."

"Jim from IT." Lestrade grinned back, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood up.

Jim had this sort of smile that said he knew.

And then Lestrade found himself alone.

He shuddered.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

**_Hostage situation at Piccadilly Circus. Sniper on scene. Eight hour limit. Get him. Alive, if possible. -MH_**

**_Five hours, knowing Sherlock. -MH_**

**_Be there in ten minutes. -GL_**

**_Haha. Very funny. -GL_**

**_You failed to mention 'BOMB'! -GL_**

**_My apologies. -MH_**

**_My ass. What am I supposed to do about this? -GL_**

**_Do whatever it is you do, to the best of your ability. -MH_**

**_You do know that there's more than one sniper? -GL_**

**_I'm sure you can handle it. -MH_**

**_I hate you. I want to hit you. -GL_**

**_And Anthea mentioned something about a root canal. -GL_**

**_Tempting. -GL_**

**_Please restrain yourself. -MH_**

* * *

><p>Lestrade crouched pressed against a window, his phone to his ear.<p>

_"Holmes."_

"Holmes, you ass."

Mycroft sighed. _"You do understand that there are more pressing matters than your-..."_

"I've got a handle on..._ half_ the situation." Lestrade interrupted brusquely.

_"Explain."_

"I've taken down the gunman who had the hostage in his sights." Lestrade told him.

_"There has been no visible change in the situation."_

"Yeah, about that..."

_"You're the one keeping a laser on the poor man now, aren't you?"_

"You're so perceptive." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "What else was I supposed to do? There's a second gunman ready just for this sort of situation. I don't know how long I have before he realizes I'm not his partner. Where are your people?"

_"En route."_

"Good. Ah, no - sorry- not good."

_"What?"_

"I think I've just been made." Lestrade grimaced. "He's doing a runner. Where did you say your men were?"

Mycroft sighed._ "Forget the hostage. Emergency services will take care of him. Take down the gunman."_

Lestrade hung up, not needing any further order. "Bossy." he grumbled but put down the sniper rifle he had taken off the first gunman and took off running.

He and the second sniper were positioned strategically in separate buildings, but Lestrade thought he could cut him off on the ground.

He was wrong.

He drew up short about half a block.

The two broke off at a dead run.

Lestrade grabbed his phone, pushing through the crowd. "Mycroft, he's on the move!"

_"I see you."_ came the unhurried voice on the other end.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade could see cameras turning their little mechanical heads to follow them.

"Course you do." Lestrade grumbled.

_"Eyes on the road, Mister Lestrade."_ Mycroft sighed.

The sniper darted across a the street, causing a car to screech and beep angrily at him. Lestrade followed a moment after shouting an apologetic 'sorry!' to the frazzled driver.

Lestrade saw the sniper turn a sharp corner and disappear. He slowed, careful not to be taken by surprise. He turned the corner and scanned the faces for his target.

He didn't find it.

_"He's in a vehicle now."_ Mycroft told him. _"A black Mazda."_

Lestrade skidded to a halt, groaning. "The one that just drove past me, wasn't it?"

_"Quite right."_

Lestrade blew out an exasperated breath and spun around, taking off in the direction he had just come from.

_"Do you expect to pursue a car on foot, Lestrade?"_ Mycroft asked dryly, obviously questioning his mental faculties.

"Of course not." Lestrade huffed. "How badly do you want this man?"

_"Badly, why?"_

Lestrade crossed the street in a run that nearly gave several drivers heart attacks. He pounced on a motorcyclist waiting at a stoplight.

"Sorry, I need to use this real quick!" he shouted, fairly throwing the poor man off.

The startled man ripped off his helmet and shouted obscenities at Lestrade's back. Lestrade paused, turned around, returned to the man, and grabbed his helmet before pursuing the sniper.

"Again, sorry!"

Mycroft couldn't stop his chuckle fast enough.

"Safety first." Lestrade told him as he fumbled with the helmet and phone with one hand and navigated traffic with the other, quickly eating distance between him and the sniper's car.

Moriarty's man must've seen him because he broke out of line and charged into the other lane, causing a group of cars to swerve, beeping their horns madly.

"Fucker!" Lestrade dodged, scraping his back wheel on one of them. He gripped his handlebars tightly with both hands, steadying himself.

He dropped his phone in the process.

He let out a nervous laugh. "Oh shit."

Mycroft, safe and sound in his office, stared at his phone in mild disappointment as the connection was abruptly severed.

"Oh dear." He returned his attention to his monitors.

Lestrade sped up, weaving in and out between cars, navigating the traffic faster than any car had any hopes of doing.

"Gotcha, you little..." Lestrade murmured under his breath.

The sniper crossed an intersection with Lestrade hot on his bumper when Lestrade caught movement out of the corner of his vision.

**_Crash!_**

A car ran a red light from Lestrade's blind side and rammed his back tyre, spinning him wildly out of control.

Lestrade was thrown clear off the motorbike and landed hard, rolling an alarming distance before coming to a skidding halt, cotton-white web of scratched material sheared over the side of his helmet.

He didn't move for a long time.

People began getting out of their cars and gathering around cautiously, calling ambulances.

Then, Lestrade's hand gave a feeble twitch, then proper movement, gingerly feeling for any broken bones. He weakly lifted his hand to his head, feeling the helmet.

"Helmet, check." he mumbled under his breath. "Nothing leaking? Good. Limbs are still attached, wonderful."

He slowly sat up and pulled his helmet off.

A woman approached him concernedly. "Are you okay, mate?" she asked him.

"Fine, I'm fine." Lestrade waved her off and staggered unsteadily to his feet. "Wow, _ooh_, head rush."

A young man with a dirt-blond buzz cut jogged in from his other side and steadied him.

Lestrade looked at him and suddenly rattled off a line of numbers and letters.

"Excuse me?" the man asked, baffled.

"Number plates of the car I was chasing, and the car that hit me. Tell Mycroft." Lestrade said.

The man looked at him - baffled - for a moment or two before complying.

"Better get this off the road." Lestrade gestured toward the motorbike.

"It'll be taken care of." the man replied.

"Ugh, not feeling too bright." Lestrade groaned, rubbing his neck. "Feeling a bit of an earthquake."

"You should probably sit down." the blonde suggested, then in afterthought asked him. "How many Richters?"

Lestrade snorted out a laugh as he sat down on the curb. "Cheeky." he noted.

"Sorry." the man sheepishly responded. "I'm new."

"I like it." Lestrade grinned and held out his hand. "Greg Lestrade."

"Stanley Hopkins." The man responded, shaking his hand. "Call me Stan."

"Alright, Stan. You can call me Greg." Lestrade replied.

"Should I bring 'round an ambulance?" Stan asked him.

"Nope." Lestrade responded dully. "Do you have a car?"

"Yeah, where do you need to be?"

Lestrade leveled him a perfectly serious look. "How loyal are you to Mycroft Holmes?"

Stan stared at him oddly. "Is this a trick question?"


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Lestrade was awoken sometime the next day by his phone ringing.

He flung out his arm, feeling around blindly for a few moments before finally realizing that his nightstand was just out of reach. Despite the various aches and bruises, he crawled out from under his covers and picked his phone up.

"Lestrade." he croaked.

_"Where the Hell are you?"_ Mycroft sounded less than pleased.

"In my flat." Lestrade responded grumpily. "Good morning, by the way."

_"It's four in the afternoon."_ Mycroft told him sharply. _"And you're not in your flat, Sergeant Donovan is growing hysterical with worry. Came home late after dealing with my brother and realized you weren't there."_

It took about two seconds for the words to register in Lestrade's head. "Oh _shit_. Are you over there now?"

_"She's considering rounding up a search party."_

"Wrong flat."

_"Excuse me?"_

"I'm in a different flat." Lestrade repeated. "Stan drove me over and promised not to tell."

_"Who?"_

"Holy shit, he actually didn't tell you." Lestrade marveled. "One honest man in the world of espionage."

_"He is sure to die quickly."_ Mycroft sighed._ "Honest men always do."_

"Alright, I'll come clean. I don't want to die. I've got a second flat you don't know about." Lestrade said flatly.

_"Thank you for being so honest with me, I hadn't already come to that conclusion."_ Mycroft responded quite crossly.

Lestrade just chuckled and hung up.

Mycroft rang back a moment later.

"Two calls in as many minutes? I've got to give it to you, Mister Holmes, you're tenacious when you want something."

There was perfect silence on the other end, then a deep exhale.

"Count to ten, I find that helps." Lestrade suggested helpfully.

_"Not as much as I need it to."_

"Don't be like that." Lestrade smiled. "I just didn't want to explain to Donovan why I came back looking like I was in a car crash."

_"Well, in the future, please do not run off like that."_ Mycroft said as patiently as possible.

"I don't work for you."

_"If we're going to work together, we're going to have to draw up regulations sometime."_

"Yeah, lets do that sometime." Lestrade said and hung up again. This time, he called back.

_"Why do you keep doing that?"_ Mycroft asked him when he picked up.

"Because my phone is from an earlier age without GPS in every electronic, and you're trying to trace my call." Lestrade replied. "No, don't bother trying to deny it, you are most definitely doing it."

Mycroft sighed.

"Alright, lets start drawing regulations from here: I work for you when you give me a job. Otherwise, it's really none of your business. Okay?"

_"Very well."_

"And no bullying Stan into leading you here."

_"If you were willing to let him drive you there with the expectation of him telling me, then you most likely have a second flat set up for hiding away in."_ Mycroft pointed out.

"Well, let's keep it for when I really need it." Lestrade yawned.

_"Sleepy?"_

"And cranky." Lestrade huffed back. "Tell Donovan I'll be back by tonight."

_"And what shall I tell her you have you been doing?"_

Lestrade smirked. "Painting the town red."

This time, Mycroft hung up first.

* * *

><p>Donovan was outraged when Lestrade got home.<p>

"Where _were_ you?" she exclaimed, punching his arm. "Do you know how worried I was?"

"I_ told_ Mycroft to tell you I was coming back soon." Lestrade huffed, spluttering on the cigarette in his mouth, trying not to wince at the pain that shot down his sore muscles. "Calm down."

Donovan blinked blankly. Lestrade stared back.

"Oh that _bastard!_" Lestrade groaned when he realized.

Donovan came to the same conclusion. "Asshole!"

"He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Nope. You must've pissed him off again." Donovan sighed, running her fingers through her knotty hair.

"I heard Sherlock solved the case with the hostage." Lestrade remarked.

"Yup. More than one, actually." Donovan nodded.

"What, really?"

"Two hostages... so far." Donovan sighed, rubbing her eyes.

"Serial kidnapper?" Lestrade asked her worriedly as if he knew nothing of the case.

"Something like that." Donovan grunted. "The Freak's still on the case and luckily nobody's died yet. Anyway, where were you?"

"Oh, just out." Lestrade shrugged vaguely, flicking his smoke into the sink and watching it fizzle out.

But Donovan was having none of it. "Uh-huh... was it a-..." she bobbed her eyebrows a few times suggestively. "... _thing?_"

"What? _No!_" Lestrade exclaimed, appalled. "Sally! Why is it that the first unexplained action I take has to take a turn for the gutter with you?"

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Donovan smirked.

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, but realized the truth would be a for more uncomfortable topic of discussion. "I plead the fifth." he sighed, defeated.

"So when to I get to meet this girl?" Donovan asked. "Or guy."

"Never." Lestrade told her firmly.

"What? Why not?" Donovan complained.

"You never introduce me to _your_ um, guy - people - you know." Lestrade rambled uncomfortably.

"That's because my job doesn't introduce me to any good men." Donovan sighed sadly.

Just then, Anthea walked into the diner.

A fleeting, calculative look flickered in Lestrade's eyes but it was gone when Donovan glanced a second time. She must've imagined it.

"Hey, Anthea." Donovan greeted, walking over, fully intent on using underhanded tricks to get information out of her flatmate. She was a cop, and she knew her way around an interrogation. "Remember when we talked about Greg being a eunuch? Well, we were wrong."

"Hey!" Lestrade whined.

"Really now?" Anthea raised her eyebrows at Donovan, glanced at Lestrade, and smirked.

Lestrade pressed his palms together behind Donovan's back in a pleading gesture.

Anthea slipped a hand into her pocket as she listened to Donovan chattering on.

**_Free meals, on the house. -A_**

**_I wouldn't let my pretend girlfriend pay. Silly. -GL_**

**_Deal. -A_**

"Hey." Lestrade called as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket. "Might as well ask now, since Sally's being a nosy bugger again. You free Friday night, Anthea?"

Donovan's mouth dropped open in shock. Since words were not forthcoming, she settled for pointing at Lestrade, and then at Anthea.

"Well, remember that time we talked about Lestrade being a eunuch?" Anthea smiled innocently at her. "Apparently, we were wrong. And yes, I'm free Friday."

Lestrade smiled. "Good, let's go out."

"You?" Donovan asked, pointing at Lestrade again now that her voice was working again, more or less. "And you?" She pointed at Anthea.

"Me." Lestrade shrugged.

"And me." Anthea mimicked him.

"Oh my God." Donovan fisted her hands in her hair as if her head would explode. "Too much drama, too quickly to comprehend. My life has become a sit-com."

"Teach you about privacy." Lestrade hummed.

"She's _so_ out of your league." Donovan said to Lestrade.

"I know." Lestrade grinned happily. "I decided to get involved with a girl really, really out of my league. And eventually get my heart really, really broken."

"Yup, I only love you for your body." Anthea responded with a smile.

"And my food."

"And your food." Anthea conceded with a one-shouldered shrug.

"Oh my God..." Donovan groaned. "My head hurts now... How? When did this happen?"

"Is that something you really want to know?" Lestrade asked dryly.

Donovan whimpered.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Anthea passed over a file the moment she and Lestrade were alone.

Lestrade took it and absently flipped it open. "What am I looking at?"

"Alex Woodbridge." Anthea responded in a clipped tone. "Or, what is left of him. He was murdered, strangled to death twenty-four hours ago. Sherlock and Dr. Watson are on the case."

Lestrade ran a finger down the list of facts about the case. "Oscar Dzundza." he suddenly announced. "The Golem. The M.O matches."

"Sherlock came to the very same conclusion." Anthea nodded grimly. "You know of him?"

Lestrade smiled sheepishly. "Met him once, six years ago. Charming fellow, nearly popped my head off."

"Well, he's back." Anthea shrugged. "The Baker Street Duo will no doubt be in pursuit of him."

"And vice-versa." Lestrade sighed. "Golem doesn't like people getting in his way."

Anthea looked at him.

"It was a long time ago." Lestrade waved her off. "It's not going to be a problem."

"Good." Anthea nodded grimly.

"Where are Sherlock and John, now?" was Lestrade's next question.

"Following up a lead."

"This... Professor Cairns?"

"The very same." Anthea nodded. "They suspect the Golem will be paying her a visit."

"I guess that's where I'll be headed to, then."

"Good to know."

"I hope Mycroft wasn't too much of a bother about me slipping off." Lestrade winced.

Anthea looked at him for a moment, aghast. "If he wasn't my boss - and if you weren't my pretend boyfriend - I'd kill the both of you idiots."

"God knows how you tolerate us, love." Lestrade smirked.

Anthea snorted and gave him a retaliatory punch for the added endearment.

"Ow! Victim of car accident, here!" Lestrade complained.

* * *

><p>"Let him go, or I<em> will<em> kill you." the little blonde gunman threatened solidly, pistol raised at eye level pointing upward at its massive target.

The Golem laughed over the muffled noises of protest Sherlock was making behind his gloved hand.

The Golem swung around, leg snapping out and suddenly the gun was gone from John's hands. The ex-military man hadn't even seen the hulking giant move in the darkness.

After living a lifetime in the filthy dark homeless gutters, the Golem had understandably mastered the advantage of darkness.

The two intruders scurried around like mice nipping and scratching at a boulder. Useless.

With a great big swing of his arm, he threw the Baker Street Duo around like tiny ragdolls and was briefly transported to a moment of childhood, smashing tiny, plastic, model cities.

The Golem turned and dashed for the door, his long strides quite creating the illusion of flight.

Sherlock fired after him, but the shots flew wide.

The Golem shouldered his way out of the theater and hightailed it down the hall knowing John and Sherlock were in no shape to set chase.

He turned the corner and nearly plunged his ugly face into a group of three gun barrels.

"Don't." Anthea warned him flatly. "Just don't."

One of the doors behind him in the hall opened and three more men emerged. One was Lestrade.

"Up against the wall, hands where we can see them." Anthea barked.

"You heard the lady." Lestrade grinned, stepping forward with a pair of rather solid looking handcuffs.

He was the only one who wasn't holding a gun.

Lestrade followed the Golem's gaze to himself and shrugged sheepishly. "I don't believe in guns." he said, snapping one of the cuffs on the Golem's right hand.

The Golem shoved off the wall and spun around, wrapping his free arm around Lestrade's neck in a choke hold, shielding himself from the guns with Lestrade's body.

Two shots rang out and blood spurted from The Golem's right knee and his left shoulder.

The monstrous figure let out a groaning noise of pain that was a hybrid scream and sob and fell over.

Anthea had fired the one shot to the Golem's shoulder.

Lestrade had a smouldering hole in his jacket pocket from where he had fired from inside the fold.

Lestrade regained his footing and wrestled his way out of the Golem's grip and snapped the other cuff on the assassin.

"See what I said about guns?" he sighed out, grimacing as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders. "I lied."

Anthea ran her free hand through her hair, the other still keeping her gun trained on the Golem. "Get him back to HQ." she ordered gruffly.

"And do I get to know where that is?" Lestrade asked as a few of the men grabbed the Golem and dragged him off.

"Nope." Anthea shook her head and followed after them.

"What? Come on!" Lestrade whined, trailing on her heels like a pup. "I want to see your super-secret spy lair, Anthea!" Anthea didn't reply. "Honey? Sweetheart? Darling?"

Anthea stopped suddenly, nearly making Lestrade bowl her over. She turned to him and grabbed his collar. "Call me that... _one more time._" she dared, eyes narrowed to slits.

Lestrade raised his hands in submission. "Yes ma'am."

Anthea raised her eyebrow.

"I mean, no ma'am."

"Good." She let him go and turned on her heel, stilettos clipping purposefully off down the hall.

Lestrade blew out a breath. "I'm not sure what this means about our love life, Anthea." he joked.

The rest of Mycroft's men, Stan being one of the agents requested by Lestrade, choked on thin air and stared at each other, unsure of how to handle the situation.

Anthea huffed out a laugh. "Means I wear the pants."

"And you rock them." Lestrade agreed. "I'm a little turned on. Seriously, what are you _like_ in the bedroom?"

Anthea smirked at him.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes I would." Lestrade grinned back easily.

Stan blushed and covered his ears.

* * *

><p>It was late at night by the time Lestrade got home. He sighed wearily and shrugged off his jacket.<p>

"So... you're home late." Lestrade jumped and spun around to face Donovan.

"Whaa-... Jesus, Donovan! Don't scare me like that!" Lestrade complained.

Donovan shrugged. "Just looking after my mate."

"Yes, okay? I was out late, Mum." Lestrade rolled his eyes and grinned. "Consider it my rebellious stage and get used to it."

"But seriously, Anthea?" Donovan shook her head, amazed. "I thought you two had more of a BFFs relationship going on."

"We do." Lestrade snickered and leaned in. "BFFs with benefits."

Donovan snorted elegantly and swatted him. "You two are too much. But seriously, she's great."

"Would you trust her with my life and well being?" Lestrade questioned playfully.

"Oh I'd trust her with your life more than I trust you." Donovan shot back with a smile.

"Oi!"


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

"So..." The tension in the air could be cut with a butter knife. "Anderson, Lestrade - Lestrade, Anderson." Donovan introduced the two men.

Lestrade was the first to offer his hand. "Greg Lestrade." he said warily.

"Philip Anderson." Anderson responded, shaking it.

They shook hands briefly and immediately stepped back as if sizing each other up. Anthea, who was sitting at one of the diner tables, began tapping her perfectly lacquered nails on the wooden surface.

"Um..." Donovan said uncomfortably, then threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "See, Greg? This is why I don't invite my male friends over!" she practically wailed.

"Watch out." Anthea advised casually. "Your inner protective father is showing."

Lestrade glared at her for a moment before he shook his head. "Sorry, where are my manners?" he smiled lightly. "Tell me about yourself? What do you do?"

"I'm in forensics." Anderson smiled back. "That's how I met Sally." The two exchanged warm looks.

Anthea paused in her tapping only to briefly wrinkle her nose, before resuming her habit.

"Crime scene romance." Lestrade remarked jokingly and Anderson huffed out an obligatory laugh.

"Guilty as charged, Your Honour." he responded and turned to Anthea. "And you are...?"

"Sleeping with Greg." Anthea responded, straight-faced.

"Her name is Anthea." Lestrade added without a hitch. "By the way. Just saying."

"Oh... um." Anderson coughed. "Nice to meet you."

"Sorry, they're-..." Donovan sighed. "They're always like this."

"Always." Lestrade agreed solemnly.

Anthea made a humming sound of agreement and smiled.

"I like it." Anderson smiled. "It's... interesting. Refreshing."

"Best thing is that you can be as weird as we are and we won't judge." Lestrade mock-saluted.

"Always a good trait to look for in a friend." Anderson agreed, smiling.

Just then, Donovan's phone rang and she grimaced. "Well, that's our cue. Anderson, come on, work calls." She looked at Lestrade and Anthea. "Sorry guys."

"Don't worry." Lestrade waved her off. "We're not going anywhere. Anderson, come back whenever, we should go out sometime to the pub, or something."

"Okay, sure." Anderson nodded.

The two left the diner.

Lestrade and Anthea exchanged glances.

"Forensics." Lestrade began.

"Crime scene romance?" Anthea wondered aloud.

"Do you think-...?"

"Flirting over a dead body? Not Donovan's style."

"He seems nice."

"Nice enough."

"But married."

"_So_ married."

"Well, Sally could do worse."

"I guess." Anthea sighed. "Anderson and his wife openly go out with other people."

"What, really?" Lestrade grimaced.

"They don't break it off because his wife is Catholic." Anthea shrugged. "She doesn't want to go to Hell, or something."

"Hmm."

"He's a decent enough bloke." Anthea added. "Average at his job, not the brightest tool in the shed, but he's not horrible. I don't think marriage is in either of their agendas, so you probably don't have to worry about that."

Lestrade looked at her forlornly. "I wasn't even thinking marriage. Why would you make me think marriage?"

Anthea chuckled. "Daddy's little girl is all grown up and dating married men."

Lestrade made a muffled noise of extreme distress.

"This is definitely Donovan getting back at you for telling her about our non-existent relationship."

"Yup."

* * *

><p>Lestrade was rolling out cinnamon bun dough and sprinkling generously with cinnamon sugar when Mycroft walked in and poked his head into the kitchens uninvited.<p>

"Oh, hello there." Lestrade greeted as he rolled the dough and began cutting.

"Lestrade, I have need of your-..."

"No." Lestrade cut him off firmly.

"I didn't even-..."

"Nope."

Mycroft sighed. "Lestrade."

"_Nooo._" Lestrade drawled, drawing out the syllable as he lined his baking pan with raw little rolls and shoved them into the oven. "Mycroft, I am _not_ a full time agent. I run a diner, you know? And besides, I'm still sore from my car crash. Are you already finished with the Golem?"

"Yes. dumb as a stone, I believe you would be tickled pink to hear." Mycroft responded dryly.

Lestrade burst into laughter.

"How are your injuries?" Mycroft asked him.

"Horrible." Lestrade replied immediately. "I am in no condition to move."

"Shall I call a doctor?" Mycroft offered, eyebrow raised.

"My code of manliness dictates that I must persevere in stoic silence." Lestrade said as he lowered a pan of cooling buns off the top of the oven. "Snitch?"

Mycroft barely managed to catch the warm bun tossed at him. "I really shouldn't." he sighed longingly.

"Go on, just a bite." Lestrade egged him on, ripping off a piece of his own bun and popping it into his mouth. "They're hot out of the oven and quite perfect, if I may say so myself."

After another moment's deliberation, Mycroft awkwardly nibbled at a little sugar frosting. His eyebrows rose a little as he made a little noise of approval.

Lestrade grinned triumphantly.

Mycroft caught his look and coughed self-consciously. "They are indeed... acceptable."

Lestrade slid a plate across the counter for Mycroft and the two hung around in the kitchen, eating while standing. A small part of Mycroft's brain berated him on both their lack of table manners.

It was strangely... domestic. In a way.

"One day, Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade sighed as he chewed. "One day you will come here without bringing your work along."

"I'm sure there are better places to be if I was free of crisis." Mycroft responded.

Lestrade's blinked and lowered his gaze to the delicacy in his hands. "Like?" he asked curiously.

Mycroft looked at him. "Like the Diogenes Club." he replied simply. Stating the obvious answer. The answer that really, anybody would know.

"You're still really bothered that I'm spying on you, aren't you?" Lestrade huffed.

"In this situation, I think I cannot afford not to be." Mycroft said. "Did you really expect otherwise?"

"No." Lestrade shook his head. "But, I've known you Holmeses for quite a long time now. I haven't taken any advantages, despite the many that Sherlock has given. I think I fully deserve to know what Mycroft Holmes does on his days off."

Mycroft just stared at him flatly.

Lestrade sighed and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Well_ I'm sorry_ for trying to talk to you like a normal human being! Do you know how frustrating you can be?"

"Maybe you should stop trying to talk to me like a 'normal human being'." Mycroft responded scathingly.

"And what are you, Mycroft?" Lestrade snapped. "A robot? An AI? A shapeshifter? An alien? Oh wait, you're not really alien, are you?"

Mycroft quickly staunched a chuckle.

"Point being..." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I think we're going to be stuck with each other for a long time. The least we can do is try to become friends."

Mycroft thought about that for a moment while he nibbled on his cinnamon roll. "I enjoy reading." he said finally. "The Diogenes Club is the most ideal place to do so, but that does not mean I read there all the time."

Lestrade grinned and nodded. "There we go. That's a start."

The chef hopped up and sat on the edge of the counter, smudging flour on the butt of his trousers, his legs swinging absently as he meticulously unraveled his hot pastry bit by torn bit.

And that was not how one traditionally eats a cinnamon bun. Mycroft had to physically restrain himself from commenting.

Lestrade had this sly look on his face as if he knew, but continued doing it for Mycroft's discomfort.

And knowing him, he was.

"By the way, your PA is my fake girlfriend now."

Mycroft choked on his bite.

Perhaps the sly look had absolutely nothing to do with cinnamon buns and the intricate ways to eat them.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

"It's to do with the Bruce-Partington plans." Mycroft said suddenly in between sips of coffee a little after the two of them migrated to the main dining area and the coffee machine.

"_Mycroft_." Lestrade groaned.

"Sherlock has it."

"Good for him."

"He hasn't made any move to return it to us." Mycroft told him pointedly.

"Ah."

"Yes indeed."

"And let me guess, you want me to pop by and steal them from him?" Lestrade asked him.

"Or you could simply ask for them like a normal person." Mycroft pointed out.

"Don't you mean 'a normal person who works for you'?" Lestrade asked. "Friendly reminder that I run a diner and I don't work for you."

"No, you'll just sneak into my brother's flat and steal government secrets from him." Mycroft shot back. "Because that's much better."

Lestrade raised a finger and opened his mouth in objection, but stopped himself. "I will wisely keep strategic silence." he said instead.

"Will you do it?"

Lestrade huffed. "Of course. Because the great Mycroft Holmes would go out of his way to come down here to drink coffee and actually give me the option of declining."

Mycroft huffed back. "Of course not."

"Right." Lestrade sighed as he drained his mug. "But if I do this, you won't bother me for the next week at least."

"I will give you time to recover from your car crash." Mycroft allowed graciously.

"Smug fucker." Lestrade grumbled.

Mycroft just smiled serenely and sipped his coffee.

* * *

><p>"It's you again." Sherlock said by way of greeting.<p>

"John's going out to see Sarah." Lestrade responded in the same bland tone.

Sherlock snorted, not looking up from his - no - John's laptop. "Won't last." he murmured under his breath as he typed away on his website.

"Really? I think they're a good match." Lestrade remarked, inviting himself into the kitchenette to drop off some packed food.

Sherlock paused, hands hovering over the laptop keyboard. He looked over at the door leading into the kitchenette, too lazy to get up and join Lestrade. "Lestrade, what are you doing here?" he asked suddenly.

Lestrade poked his head into view. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock did this odd little blink-inhale-and-avert-gaze that was his equivalent of shaking himself out of a reverie. "People don't usually seek out my company. And not nearly twice in the same week. The food you brought from last time is still in the fridge."

Lestrade scrunched his nose up and went to check. "Sherlock! That was meant to be eaten _on the day!_"

"Well, obviously it wasn't." Sherlock sighed. "I had a case."

The consulting detective could hear Lestrade rattling and rummaging around out of sight in the kitchenette. "Yeah, I saw it on the telly." Lestrade called back. "Horrible stuff. You better eat this before it starts molding!"

"Who knows, might be interesting." Sherlock hummed.

"This is quality food, Sherlock!" Lestrade squawked indignantly.

Sherlock smirked and resumed typing.

Lestrade walked in with a chicken wrap on a plate. He set it down beside the laptop.

Sherlock looked at it, then at the chef.

"Eat it." Lestrade crossed his arms.

Sherlock looked back at the wrap sitting motionless and innocent on the plate. He stood up. "The game isn't over yet." he said under his breath and brushed past Lestrade and disappeared into the kitchenette.

Lestrade peered at John's laptop, not-too-subtly spying on what Sherlock was doing.

**SH**

_**Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.**_

In the kitchenette, Sherlock dug around in the sugar jar with two fingers, finally turning up with the USB stick he had hidden inside. It was such a wonderful hiding place considering that John was the only one who fussed with it and never seemed to question why the sugar never ran out to a point where he had to dig around to get at the sweetener.

Just scoop off the top.

And, the jar was deep enough that the teaspoons couldn't reach the bottom anyway.

The ideal hiding place.

He shook the sugar off the flash drive and slipped it into his pocket.

When he returned to the sitting room, Lestrade was fiddling with the skull on the mantlepiece.

"Lestrade."

Lestrade jumped a mile high. "Jesus fuck!" He practically threw the skull back into place with a dry rattle.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I'm going out, tell Mrs. Hudson I'll be late."

"Fine, okay." Lestrade sighed. "But finish up and eat, because I can't stand to watch people consensually starve."

Sherlock shrugged and sauntered out.

Lestrade turned back to Sherlock's skull and made a rude gesture at it.

The little red light blinking in the skull's left eye made no response.

"Fine! Fine! I'll go!" Lestrade threw his hands up in the air and stormed off in a huff.

* * *

><p>"Hey look, I'm going to have to take a rain check on that date." Lestrade grimaced into his phone as he clambered out of a cab in a parking lot behind the pool and paid the cabbie.<p>

_"Thought so."_ Anthea hummed. _"Work, work, work. And here I thought you were different from the others."_ she sighed exaggeratedly.

"Don't say it like _you're_ not working overtime." Lestrade whined back.

_"Okay, I totally am."_ Anthea conceded.

"On another note, I think I'm going to name the sofa 'Kirkman'."

_"You are so random. But it's **your** life choices."_

"Just saying."

_"You **do** realize you **sleep** with Kirkman like, everyday?"_

"I know, I've got a horrid libido. Donovan will have a fit if she thinks I'm cheating on you."

_"Worst idea ever. Why are we friends?"_

"You're willing to sacrifice alot for perfect, low-cholesterol desserts."

_"Yes. Yes I am."_

"Lemon cake when I get back?"

_"If we weren't such good friends, I might actually love you. Don't get killed."_

"Sure." Lestrade hung up.

He scanned the isolated parking lot as he walked and noted a black car idling by a flickering lamp. He texted Mycroft.

_**The car that plowed me is at the pool. -GL**_

_**I had my men trace the license plate you supplied. -MH**_

_**Who should I be expecting to run into? -GL**_

When Mycroft's reply came, Lestrade had to do a double take.

Well, this was a turn-up.

The car belonged to Jim from IT.


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

"Jim from IT!" Lestrade muttered to himself as he crept down the halls inside the building, gun unholstered. "How does everybody around here know everybody? The world can't be that small!"

Just as he turned a corner, something thin and solid like a baton came down hard on his wrist, causing him to drop the gun.

Lestrade hissed sharply in pain and grabbed the hand holding the offending weapon before lunging forward and driving his shoulder into his opponent's stomach, sending them both crashing against the wall, the baton clattering to the ground and skittering into the shadows in the process.

A gloved fist came down in the spot between Lestrade's shoulder blades and the arm Lestrade had a grip on came up, sweeping Lestrade into a tight half-circle, knocking him hard into the wall as well.

Lestrade barely had time to raise his hands up, guarding his head, before the man sent a punch his way that almost instantly numbed his left arm.

Lestrade's right hand came up, lightning quick, and slapped the offending hand, throwing his opponent off balance and elbowed the man's face on the withdrawal.

They broke away from each other, the man stumbling backward, clutching his bleeding nose as he let out a stream of muffled curses behind his glove. Then, he recovered and wiped a stream of blood away from his upper lip with his thumb before raising both hands in a fighting stance.

That was the first time Lestrade had a good look at his face.

"Hey, you're the sniper from the other day." he noted. "Busy, aren't we?" He also raised his hands and bent his knees, ready for action.

Suddenly, there was a sharp sting on his lower back and a hair-raising crackle before he crumpled to the ground, convulsing.

Jim walked up from behind, tossing away the stun gun and nudging Lestrade's leg with the toe of his tailored shoes. "Is he dead, Sebby?" he wondered aloud. "He looks dead."

"Course he's not." Sebastian Moran grunted, prodding gingerly at his possibly broken nose. "You used a 'stun' gun. Who is this guy, anyway?"

"Just because he's a _little_ dishy doesn't mean I automatically know him." Moriarty rolled his eyes, grabbing Lestrade by the hair and turning his head sideways to look at his face. "Oh wait, I _do_ know him."

Sebastian huffed through his pain.

"He's Molly Hooper's friend." Moriarty explained.

"The girl who dumped you?"

"Two weeks of nonstop giggling and cooing about kittens and mooning over Sherlock Holmes?" Moriarty sniffed, offended. "No,_ I_ dumped_ her_."

"Right." Sebastian grunted. "What should I do about him?"

"Just stuff him in a closet somewhere where he won't cause trouble." Moriarty waved him off. "And after that, you go get your big boy gun and we'll play with Sherlock Holmes a bit, 'kay?"

"Okay." Sebastian nodded curtly, dragging Lestrade's unconscious body into a locker room and securing him to a bench bolted to the floor with a pair of handcuffs he had in a pouch on his hip.

"Do you always carry around handcuffs, or just when you think there will be trouble?" Moriarty asked, eyebrow raised, a little judgmental.

"There's always bound to be trouble when you're around." Sebastian huffed. "Now, go play with your detective. I want to get this over with and go back to sleep."

"Is that all you ever do?" Moriarty complained. "Take care of your weapons, kill people, and sleep?"

Sebastian opened his mouth with a sarcastic retort on his tongue when they were interrupted.

**_"Brought you a little getting to know you present."_** the loud, booming voice of Sherlock Holmes called out from by the poolside.

Both criminal heads jumped up and inclined like hounds listening for their prey.

"Sebby," Moriarty said slowly, calmly. "Go get your gun."

"I'll be thirty seconds, go down there and talk to him." Sebastian nodded back.

"Wish me luck."

"Break a leg." Sebastian responded obediently.

"I'm half afraid you'll shoot one if I don't."

* * *

><p><em>"If I had a guardian angel, I think it would be one irresponsible as fuck angel, and probably an alcoholic, because I don't want to be the only one always waking up with a headache.<em>" Lestrade grumbled.

Mycroft inhaled sharply against his phone when he heard Lestrade's voice come on the other end of the line after an hour of radio silence. "Lestrade, are you alright?"

_"No, Gregory Lestrade is dead, this is his ghost speaking, a ghost that is about to meet said irresponsible-as-fuck angel and kick his arse into the last century. How may I help you?"_ Lestrade replied sarcastically.

"You may help by telling me where I should send Anthea to pick you up." Mycroft said.

_"Okay, just give me a sec..."_ There was a noise like metal protesting under a great weight and Lestrade hissed in pain. _"Anthea won't judge if I show up wearing bracelets, will she?"_

"I don't see why she should." Mycroft huffed. "It's amazing we haven't seen you in them before."

_"That's true considering I may have just damaged government property."_ Lestrade chuckled.

"I'm sure you will be appropriately punished."

_"Now don't get me excited."_

Mycroft stared at his phone in a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

_"Mister Holmes?"_ Lestrade called out. _"Mycroft? Did I break you?"_

"Um." Mycroft said intelligently.

_"Oh come on!"_ Lestrade huffed out a laugh. _"I flirt, you flirt. Or, alternatively shut me down. That's how the game is played."_

Mycroft closed his gaping mouth. "I do not understand how you thought flirting with me was any sort of rational idea."

_"Too long."_ Lestrade snorted. _"Just say 'don't flirt'."_

"Don't... flirt." Mycroft repeated drolly because he never did anything obediently.

_"Aw, shame."_ Lestrade blew out a breath. _"Anyway, I'll be out back waiting for Anthea, okay?"_

"Very well."

Mycroft awkwardly hung up and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

* * *

><p>Lestrade walked out toward the black car that cruised into the parking lot, gingerly prodding his lower back where he had been struck with the stun gun's needles.<p>

"Another day, another injury." he sighed as he opened the back passenger door. "Mycroft Holmes is officially bad for my..."

Mycroft stared out at him from the back seat, eyebrow raised.

"...Health." Lestrade paused, considered the pros and cons of getting into the car before shrugging and apparently making his decision.

He slid into the seat beside Mycroft and the car rolled off.

"I thought you were sending Anthea." Lestrade said, half-reproachfully.

"I came to clear up an issue with you." Mycroft replied slowly.

"Okay... shoot." Lestrade said curiously.

Mycroft took in a breath. "When I said 'don't flirt' what I really meant was... 'don't tease'."

Lestrade just stared at him blankly for a moment before realization dawned on him. "... Oookay?"

Mycroft just raised his eyebrow.

"I-..." Lestrade was momentarily at a loss for words. "Just so you know, you're an attractive bloke and all, but it's nothing personal."

Mycroft smirked ferally. "I am a Holmes. How personal can it get?"

Lestrade leaned in close enough for Mycroft to feel his breath on his cheek. "Then it looks like we have an agreement."

"So it would seem." Mycroft responded silkily.

"Just so you know, I'm not the one who's going to be explaining this infidelity to Anthea."

"I guess that leaves me to break her heart."


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen  
><span>

Lestrade snuck back into his flat at around five in the morning after, shedding his clothes wearily before hopping into the shower. With a little multi-tasking, he could probably shower, patch himself up, brush his teeth, and still have time for a catnap before opening shop.

'Kirkman' he thought with a snort as he stumbled back out of the shower exactly two minutes later and brushed his teeth, simultaneously checking his stun gun injury in the bathroom mirror and sticking a bit of plaster on it.

He was fake sleeping with Anthea, real sleeping with Mycroft, but the true love of his life may well be his couch - Kirkman.

In the end, he realized, he was a bit of a slut.

He spat out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth before shoving his legs awkwardly into sweatpants and falling face-first on his sofa.

He wanted to sleep for a year. Hibernate. It was just that sort of day.

His phone, as if on cue, began buzzing from under his pile of dirty laundry on the floor. Lestrade briefly considered letting it go to voicemail. But there were only three people on earth who would call him at this godawful time of morning.

The perpetually awake Sherlock Holmes, on bad days - by proxy - John Watson, and on really horrible instances, Anthea.

Lestrade dragged himself up and picked up his phone, connecting the call.

"Anthea, I just realized I'm a manwhore." he announced sleepily.

_"Don't worry, I love you just the way you are."_ Anthea responded without even pausing.

"Hey, I'm trying to have a moral crisis over here." Lestrade whined. "What do you want?"

_"Boyfriend, you have some explaining to do."_ Anthea said in a sing-song manner.

"Believe me, honey, I can explain." Lestrade said innocently.

_"Come on, details."_ Anthea demanded._ "And, I believe you promised me lemon cake."_

Lestrade glanced at the clock. "Breakfast." he grunted.

_"Lemon cake."_ Anthea repeated firmly._ "I am a mature adult, I can eat what I want for breakfast. And anyway, my boyfriend is cheating on me, you have to give me comfort food."_

"God, _whyyy..._?" Lestrade groaned, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "Fine! When are you coming over?"

_"I'm standing outside."_ Anthea replied, sounding impishly pleased with her answer.

"Of course you are." Lestrade sighed, exasperated. "Just give me a sec..."

He stumbled down the stairs to the diner, grabbing a pack of smokes on his way, and opened the front door for Anthea.

Anthea pressed the 'disconnect' button on her phone and smiled brightly at him. "Good morning."

"Not when you're through with me, I reckon." Lestrade sighed, lighting up and waving his hand in front of his face to dissipate the smoke.

"Naturally." Anthea smirked. "So, I'm the kind of girl who believes in a bond of trust between two people in a relationship."

"It's five in the morning." Lestrade complained flatly.

"And you're sleeping with my boss." Anthea shot back, still grinning.

"I will close the door in your face." the grouchy chef threatened.

"No you bloody won't." Anthea laughed and gently nudged past him and into the shop.

"Don't tempt me before coffee." Lestrade grumbled back and followed her. "I can't guarantee anything."

Anthea hopped daintily on a stood at the counter and waited patiently for Lestrade to cut out perfect triangles of lemon cake for them both.

She ate it with a cup of chamomile tea.

Lestrade had it with coffee, straight up and black as he suspected Anthea's heart to be.

It was a strangely amicable event considering Lestrade was sleeping with Anthea's boss, intended to continue doing so, and they both knew it.

"So..." Anthea blew gently on her hot tea.

"There is really nothing going on with us." Lestrade said quickly. "Just... you know."

"Friends with benefits." Anthea clarified.

"Don't know if you can even call us that." Lestrade huffed. "_Friends_."

Anthea waited for Lestrade to take his next gulp of coffee before dropping the bomb. "To my knowledge, Mycroft Holmes has never had sex."

The coffee in Lestrade's mouth quickly found a home on the opposite wall.

"What the Hell, Anthea?" Lestrade exclaimed, rubbing the back of his hand over his chin.

Anthea got up from her quick duck and reseated herself elegantly. "Exactly what it sounds like. He considered exchanging bodily fluids to be... abhorrent."

"Well he certainly didn't seem to mind." Lestrade huffed indignantly, then grimaced. "Not like we're going to talk about that, ever."

"He likes you." Anthea said, eyebrow raised.

"Does not." Lestrade retorted. "Thought he hated me hundred percent until last night."

"Don't worry, I said he liked you." Anthea sighed. "He accepts that you're attractive, but I doubt there is any heart in it. I'm willing to take baby steps."

"What are you, his mother?" Lestrade teased.

"Are you discussing your scandalous affair with your girlfriend?" Anthea shot back playfully.

"Point." Lestrade snorted.

Just then, they heard a noise upstairs and both froze as if they thought Donovan could hear them talking about such a delicate subject. But, a moment later, they heard the shower begin to run.

Lestrade jabbed a finger warningly in Anthea's direction. "We never spoke of this."

"Spoke of what?" Anthea asked serenely, sipping her tea.

* * *

><p>"Don't you think it's suspicious?" Mycroft asked Anthea, back at his office.<p>

"What is?" his PA returned professionally.

"Jim Moriarty had Lestrade, he could've killed him." Mycroft told her. "But he didn't."

"Maybe he decided he didn't need to." Anthea suggested.

"He killed an old woman and her eleven neighbors because she described his voice." Mycroft pointed out. "What would be the consequences of tracking him down and attacking him?"

Anthea fell into a grim silence. "I don't know."

"Neither do I." Mycroft sighed heavily. "And I don't like not knowing."

"Is that what prompted...?" Anthea didn't have to finish her sentence.

"Well, you know what they say to do with friends and enemies." Mycroft shrugged. "And those who you are not sure which category in which they fall into."

"Do you think he could be working for Moriarty?" Anthea asked him.

"That is a question more appropriately asked of you." Mycroft responded pointedly. "As, I do not know who he works for."

"I do not believe that this matter and that, are related." Anthea told him. "He is, at heart, a freelance agent."

"If he is moonlighting for Moriarty, he could be a much greater threat than we suspected." Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair. "Sounds tedious."

Anthea shook her head. "You could've warned me you were going to do this before I decided to become his pretend girlfriend."

"If I knew I would, I would've told you." Mycroft replied. "But I didn't. I didn't expect this at all."

"That's not unusual when Gregory Lestrade is involved."


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

"I've been in contact with a few of my friends in Five and none of them have heard either whisper nor peep from Moriarty. Should I be worried?" Lestrade asked as he cleared dishes when Mycroft next came around the Strangers Cafe.

"Of course you should." Mycroft sighed, prodding a wonderfully moist chocolate cake Lestrade had made. For the sake of his diet, he shouldn't eat it. He would have to settle with giving it a gruesome death. "Sherlock, despite his best efforts, barely even touched him. We cannot assume he has skulked off to lick his nonexistent wounds. He mentioned Moriarty getting a 'better offer'. We are unsure of what that means."

"It probably means that someone is being a more interesting than Sherlock." Lestrade grimaced, scooping up Mycroft's plate, saving the poor cake a horrid demise and sending Mycroft a dirty look for even trying that under his roof. "A part of me doesn't want to know, the other wants to meet this guy, pat him on the shoulder, and wish him good luck."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and put his fork down. "Don't encourage anything."

Lestrade just chuckled back when he noticed a man loitering by the counter near the door. "Hey, can I get you anything?" he asked pleasantly.

The man looked surprised and slightly unsure. "Um... I'm Harold... I work here?"

"Oh, right." Lestrade tapped his forehead reproachfully with his knuckles and Mycroft stifled a snicker. "Shut up." he snapped.

"I didn't say anything." Mycroft smiled smugly.

"You were thinking it." Lestrade retorted.

"Now you're just sounding like Sherlock." the government agent tutted.

"Shut your face." Lestrade grumbled.

Mycroft looked over at the hapless Harold and smiled. "Might I suggest investing in a name tag with the caption: waits tables?" he smirked at Lestrade.

"Shut up, I'm going to kill you." Lestrade growled warningly, growing redder around the ears.

Just then, a mother and her two children entered the diner and Harold immediately went to assist them to get away from his new boss and Lestrade's mysterious friend.

"Honestly..." Lestrade sighed and ran his fingers through his hair and leaned against the counter.

"Anyway, back on the subject of Moriarty..." Mycroft got them back on track. "It's unfortunate that the Bruce-Partington plans could not be retrieved. I do hate leaving loose ends untied."

"I heard Anthea fished the memory stick out of the pool." Lestrade nodded with a slightly theatrical sadness. "Not a scrap of information salvageable."

Mycroft paused, clasped his hands in front of him, rested his chin on them, and just stared flatly at Lestrade for a second. "It's a real shame."

"Yes." Lestrade began picking invisible dirt out from underneath his fingernails. "Yes, it is." A smile pulled gently at the corners of his mouth despite his effort to keep a straight face.

"You have it, don't you?" Mycroft sighed.

Lestrade burst out into snickers. "Yes I do."

"Give it here." Mycroft held out his hand expectantly, palm turned upward.

"I'm surprised that Sherlock didn't notice I switched the hard drives." Lestrade reached into his pocket and dropped the memory stick onto it.

"He most likely did, just didn't care." Mycroft huffed.

"He hid it in the sugar jar. The second most secure place in Sherlock's mind, besides the pocket of his second best dressing gown, and even Mrs. Hudson knows about that one." Lestrade snorted. "Is he six?"

"He has never been the best at hiding things." Mycroft sighed, pocketing the hard drive. "His forte rests in seeking out."

"Well, I'm sure you more than make up for it." Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Mycroft responded mildly. "Seeing as you had the plans and did not immediately contact me about it, may I assume you thoroughly..._ confirmed_ the contents?"

"Delicately put." Lestrade hummed. "And there's no use denying it. If anything, I am a very efficient agent."

"I'm not sure you should consider that a positive quality in this instance." Mycroft berated him.

"Hey now, efficiency played a big part in getting those plans back." Lestrade complained.

"And a great talent you have." Mycroft smiled indulgently.

Lestrade leaned in and lowered his voice. "You'd know best about my talents." he grinned.

Just then, the door flew open and Donovan rushed in like a storm.

"And there sails the ship." Mycroft chuckled.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and drew back before calling out to his flatmate. "Heya, Sal."

"Don't talk to me." the sergeant snapped as she stalked through, haphazardly throwing her shoulder bag on a chair.

"Well, I've also got a song prepared." Lestrade called after her. "Or would you prefer the mime?"

That earned him a short laugh from the woman before she disappeared into their second floor flat.

"You sing?" Mycroft asked curiously.

"Like a crow." Lestrade beamed back and promptly broke out into a surprisingly decent rendition of 'Bright Future in Sales'.

Mycroft just covered his face with his hand. He rationalized that if he could not see Lestrade, then nobody could see him, and nobody would affiliate him with the odd chef shuffling into the kitchen to the beat with a stack of dirty dishes.

"I gotta get my-...!" Lestrade sang loudly.

"Gahh!" Howard yelped suddenly. "Not in front of kids!"

"What, that's hardly even a bad word!" Lestrade shouted back, poking his head out of the kitchen.

"Not. In. Front. Of. Kids!" Howard growled back firmly.

Lestrade looked suitably scolded. "... Sorry." And he disappeared from sight again.

Mycroft couldn't hold it in any longer. He burst out into muffled laughter.

"I gotta get my_ BEEP_ together!" Lestrade continued singing in the kitchen, undisturbed.

How did such a rowdy child of a man get involved with a stiff-collar organization like MI5?


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

"Be sure to lock everything up when you leave." Lestrade said.

Harold nodded, rolling his eyes. "And double check the rear window because sometimes the lock doesn't latch properly, I know."

"And if you have any problems-..."

"I'll ask Donovan." Harold sighed impatiently. "Just go on your date, already."

"Are you sure-..."

"Yes. I will be very, _absolutely _fine for one night." Harold physically grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders, spun him around, and began pushing him out the door. "Go!"

"Okay, okay!" Lestrade waved. "See you tomorrow, then!"

"G'night, boss." Harold waved.

Anthea was waiting outside in the car she and Lestrade had commandeered from Mycroft's vast collection for tonight's reconnaissance mission.

"Did you make sure to tape all relevant phone numbers on the fridge in case of emergency?" She teased, eyebrow raised.

"Shut up." Lestrade grumbled.

"She's your baby, I get it." Anthea smirked. "When I threw my lot in with you, I did so on the knowledge that I would always come in second place." she sighed melodramatically.

"Would you quit it, already?" Lestrade groaned.

"No." Anthea tittered ruthlessly. "You're like a concerned parent leaving his child with a babysitter for the first time."

"I hate you." Lestrade said with feeling. "You are a cold-hearted witch, and I hate you."

"I think you're adorable."

"Drive, you." Lestrade huffed. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"It's a surprise." Anthea smiled.

"We're supposed to scout out information, and you won't tell me where we're even getting this information from?" Lestrade said incredulously.

"Yup." Anthea grinned cheekily.

"John said you did this." Lestrade remarked. "Are we going to an abandoned warehouse? I hope this isn't the part where you say I know too much, and kill me."

Anthea laughed. "No."

"Come on. Throw me a bone."

"I have no bones on me to throw."

"Don't get clever now."

Anthea looked at him, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "We're going to get you suited up."

"You're going to 'suit me up'?" Lestrade repeated. "You make it sound like leather is involved in some way."

"Who says it isn't?"

"Kinky." Lestrade grunted. "But I'll have you know that I look no good in capes. And I'll not stand for illogical cuts in my suit designed only for sexual distraction."

"You don't have the breasts for it." Anthea agreed sagely.

"So, where's this mysterious Batcave?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"Patience." Anthea slapped his arm. "We're just getting there."

She pulled the car up in front of a tiny little hole-in-the-wall establishment which barely looked open, much less like it was inviting customers.

"He doesn't believe in displaying his wares, or advertising." Anthea explained as they got out of the car. "He only accepts customers who are introduced by patrons he knows."

"Sounds friendly." Lestrade hummed. "Let me guess: only Mycroft is allowed to introduce customers."

"Only he does." Anthea grinned.

"So basically: a tailor for civil servants, only." Lestrade said and opened the door.

"Get out." Was the first thing said by a small elderly man with a head of snowy hair and a long, thin finger jabbing right under Lestrade's nose. "Out. Out!"

Lestrade turned around meekly, fully prepared to do so for fear of being taken smartly by the ear and thrown out.

Anthea was in the store right behind him. "Sorry, sorry. He's with me." She smiled warmly.

"Oh Anthea!" The man exclaimed, suddenly brightening. "You don't come over enough, thought you might've forgotten all about me."

Anthea shook her head. "Busy on the job." She grabbed Lestrade by the shoulder and shoved him back toward the man. "This one is my most recent mission."

"_Mission_?" Lestrade squawked indignantly.

The old man simply clicked his tongue sharply and Lestrade snapped to attention, standing stock still and straight like a school boy in front of a strict professor.

"So this is him?" The man asked.

"... I guess this must be him." Lestrade confirmed unsurely.

"You're different from what I imagined." There was a rustle and the old man began penning down a few notes and numbers on an old worn notebook. "But your sizes match."

"Of course." Anthea huffed. "They never don't."

Lestrade turned at looked at her. "You measured me?" he asked. "Without my knowledge?"

"_I_ didn't." Anthea hid her snicker behind her Blackberry.

It took a moment. "_He_ measured me?" Lestrade asked, mortified.

Anthea lowered her phone from her face, a picture of calm. "You will find that he is a very skilled multitasker."

Then, she burst out laughing again.

"You are enjoying this far too much, Anthea." Lestrade groaned.

"Young people these days." The old man huffed suddenly, startling Lestrade.

He reddened. "Sorry, Sir."

"Don't worry, I was young myself, once upon a time." The old man waved him off with a reminiscent smile.

It was a smile of a man who has lived life to the fullest in his youth, and didn't intend to give it up in his age.

Lestrade's eyes softened briefly, a look of immense envy on his face before it was gone in a blink. Anthea had almost missed it even though she had been watching for something like it.

"You'll have to tell me about it sometime." Lestrade smiled. "Starting with your name, of course."

"Theodore Frost." the old man said. "And you are Gregory Lestrade."

"Did you hear about me from Mycroft, or Anthea?" Lestrade asked with a rueful smile. "Because both will tell a very different story about me."

"And you, I'm sure, will tell another." Theodore winked back perceptively.

"What can I say?" Lestrade shrugged self-deprecatingly. "I tend to romanticize everything."

"Well, I think I've got just the suit for you that needs no romanticizing." Theodore said, taking Lestrade by the elbow and pushing him into a side room to change. "We must ready you for battle."

Lestrade popped his head back out briefly to look at Anthea.

"Just what kind of date did you say we were going on again?"


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty Two

"I dare you to roofie that guy." Lestrade whispered to Anthea, a calculative look on his face. "He probably won't be missed for the rest of the night."

"I don't have enough roofies to claim all the victims you're suggesting." Anthea replied, patting his shoulder.

"But look at them!" Lestrade exclaimed. "They're all..." He mimed drooling heavily.

"Lestrade, we're surrounded by England's finest." Anthea admonished. "Stop that."

"They're looking at you like you're a side of prized meat." Lestrade complained.

Anthea gave a little twirl and her deep plum dress flared out, flashing a milky sliver of leg that had men clear across the room craning their necks for a better look.

She smiled and examined the toes of her stilettos. "I am good." she hummed admiringly to herself.

"Yes, very beautiful." Lestrade huffed. "But have you forgotten the part where we're supposed to be sneaking around fishing for information? You're not exactly moving low profile."

"Well, we all have our talents." Anthea shrugged. "Mine is to preen and peacock."

Lestrade snickered.

Just then a young, stuttering man stumbled up to them. "Um-... excuse me."

Anthea held up a hand rebuffingly. "No sweetie, not today." she said flatly. The man promptly disappeared.

Lestrade just stared disapprovingly. "And what am I? Invisible?" he huffed. "The manners on these blokes!"

Anthea looked at him pointedly. Lestrade stared back blankly.

Then it clicked. "Oh!" Lestrade's face lit up with the understanding. He pointed at her, and then at himself. "Oh, peacock! Low profile! Yes... good."

Anthea rolled her eyes and smiled. "You're so slow." she teased.

"Whatever, you just keep peacocking and looking pretty, I'm going to sniff around." Lestrade whispered.

"Excuse me." a voice said from behind them.

Lestrade turned, fully prepared to shoo off another of Anthea's hapless admirers. "Sorry, she's-..."

He found himself face to shoulder with a stranger who was standing far too close for comfort, staring straight at him and Lord above, he probably wasn't talking to Anthea!

He fairly jumped back and looked at Anthea. "This isn't going to work, we're too pretty." he joked, deadpanned.

Anthea placed a hand on the man's chest and pushed him backward with a surprising strength for a non-violent setting. The man stumbled a foot or two away from the force of nature.

"Back off." Anthea growled warningly behind an icy smile.

Lestrade looked from Anthea, to the man, and back. Then, threw his hands up and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Oh my God! I'm the girl. You are defending my honour. My evening is officially made. Okay, you go girl, I'm going to go get drunk now." he said, patting Anthea on the shoulder and stalking off toward the bar as Anthea and the man stared each other down hotly.

He got to the bar and leaned both elbows on the surface, bracketing himself off from the other patrons as he lit up a smoke that he was half sure wasn't actually allowed. "What do you have that isn't bubbly and served in a tall flute?" he asked the bartender.

Two pale hands slid over his shoulders from behind and Lestrade felt a puff of breath on his cheek.

"Try the Merlot." A low, sultry voice suggested. "I heard it's to _die_ for."

Lestrade looked up at the mirror set behind the bar and smiled. "I'll bet it is."

Here he was at a bar, smoke in hand, a beautiful woman draped over his shoulder. It was a scene out of a noir film if only he could pull off a fedora.

Which, he probably couldn't.

"Hello Irene." he greeted.

Irene Adler dragged a red lacquered nail down his cheek and followed his gaze to the mirror. Their eyes met in the reflection.

"Hello handsome."

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked curiously. "Wait, don't answer that. I don't want to know."

"Ohh, you're no fun." Irene smirked.

"I'm smart enough to know that you would only come to an event like this if it was for something I really don't want to get involved in." Lestrade responded.

"Smart boy." Irene cooed and with a flick of her wrist, the bar beside Lestrade was instantly cleared. "So, what've you been up to?"

"Oh, you know." Lestrade shrugged. "Stuff."

"Business as usual, then?" Irene smiled, swirling a tall champagne flute and watching bubbles chase each other up the sides of the glass.

"Yup." Lestrade responded flatly.

"Where's your date?" Irene questioned conversationally.

"Probably castrating a man." Lestrade huffed.

"I like her already." Irene laughed.

"Where's_ your_ date?" Lestrade asked back.

"Didn't need one." Irene inclined her head. "I'm still deciding who I'm taking home tonight." she grinned.

Lestrade turned, leaning his back on the bar as he scanned the room. "Got your eye on anyone in particular?" he asked.

"Matters, are you going to scare them off?" Irene asked, quirking her eyebrows. "Or are you going to help me?"

"Sorry, my days of wild sexscapades are done." Lestrade responded dryly. "I'm spoken for."

"Yes, I've heard the rumors."

Lestrade looked at her. "Do tell."

"That Gregory Lestrade moved out of the government business, but up the ladder." Irene smirked.

Lestrade just looked confused. "Sorry, what?"

"I'm talking about Mycroft Holmes." Irene huffed, rolling her eyes.

Lestrade choked on a mouthful of smoke. "Who said anything about_ Mycroft Holmes?_" he exclaimed, appalled.

Irene just arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by his act.

"I'm dating Mycroft's PA!" Lestrade stated firmly.

"Oh, the pretty one with the Blackberry?" Irene smiled sympathetically. "No you're not."

"I-...!" Lestrade threw his hands up in the air and let out a noise of exasperation. "You know what? I don't even care. Just know that your information sources are crap."

Irene just smiled indulgently. "Alright." she said. "If you insist."

"I do." Lestrade nodded solemnly. "Most fervently."

Irene briefly lowered her gaze to Lestrade's mouth, before raising it to his eyes again. "It's good to see you again." she said with a bare tinge of fondness in her voice.

All of a sudden, Lestrade's whole expression tensed although his body language remained relaxed, if a bit closed. "Nope. No. Not ever." he said tonelessly.

"I only said I missed you." Irene remarked, quirking an eyebrow.

"And then you're going to ask me to do something for you. I know your tricks." Lestrade grumbled. "And my answer is 'no'."

Irene smiled again and shrugged one shoulder demurely.

"... It's good to see you again, too." Lestrade added after a prolonged pause. Then, he shifted. "I should get out of the blast radius before you start really having fun. Good evening."

"You too." Irene smirked.

Lestrade nodded once and slipped off into the crowd.


	24. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

Anthea was still gathering a train of admirers, so Lestrade sought out Mycroft.

"Hello, hi." he greeted with a bright smile as he interrupted Mycroft's conversation with a taller blond man. "Sorry, can I steal Mister Holmes for just one second?"

Mycroft hid a mildly irked look and smiled politely at his companion. "If you'll excuse me, Harry."

"Of course." The man nodded.

Lestrade guided Mycroft to a private corner of the room with a hand on his elbow.

"What's the matter?" Mycroft asked, stepping away the moment they had relative privacy.

"We've got a problem." Lestrade said, exhaling heavily.

"What problem?"

Lestrade clasped Mycroft's shoulders with both his hands dramatically and looked piercingly at him as he lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. "Hell in high heels." he intoned grimly.

Mycroft just stared at him flatly for a moment or two, either questioning Lestrade's sanity, or his own.

"What."

"Irene Adler."

"Well then, for God's sake just say so!" Mycroft snapped, shrugging Lestrade's hands violently off himself.

"It's no fun that way!" Lestrade just laughed.

Mycroft huffed and smoothed his suit down like a hassled bird with ruffled feathers. He made Lestrade wait until he was finished before addressing the matter. "What about Irene Adler?"

"She's here. Do you need a better reason to panic?" Lestrade asked.

"My blissfully ignorant colleagues might." Mycroft sighed. "Despite what my brother says-..."

"You don't actually run the government." Lestrade finished his sentence. "Preaching to the choir, Mycroft. Anyway, Irene didn't come with a date and I think she plans on meeting up with someone. Also, I think she's in trouble."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You spoke to her?"

"She draped herself over me, it would've been rude to try and pretend she didn't exist." Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"You know her, then?" was Mycroft's next question.

"I knew her." Lestrade shrugged vaguely. "Are you actually trying to ask the most obvious question last?"

Mycroft inclined his head, smiling a bit at every opportunity to make Lestrade uncomfortable. But he relented. "You mentioned Miss Adler being in trouble? When is she ever not?"

"Because her body language indicated sexual invitation, and you know she only does that when she wants something." Lestrade grimaced. "And nothing good ever comes of her wanting me to do her a favor."

"Favors?" Mycroft smiled tepidly. "Like what?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "Really? _Really?_ You want to do this?" He crossed his arms. "I hope you know that pursuing this case opens up a world of innuendos."

"Honestly, Lestrade."

"I really may not be able to control myself." Lestrade went on casually. "Seriously, there are no hard-and-fast rules to this situation."

Mycroft did not laugh. He exhaled abruptly. "Lestrade. Grow up."

"Sorry, Mycroft. I'm not into that kind of role-play." Lestrade shook his head, deadpan.

"I apologize most sincerely for trying to glean all pertinent details of this case." Mycroft droned. "Now stop that."

"Seriously though, she's over there by the bar..." Lestrade said glancing over Mycroft's shoulder. "With... with... oh dear."

Mycroft, who was standing with his back directed at the bar, didn't turn around immediately. "What is it?" he asked.

"Irene Adler did indeed come to meet someone... someone who obviously knows her, and didn't plan on seeing her here today." Lestrade explained.

"Blackmail, then?" Mycroft huffed. "Who's the unfortunate man?"

"Um..." Lestrade grimaced. "Unfortunate woman." he corrected, narrowing his eyes calculatingly. "An unfortunate... _royal_... woman. You might want to warn your Equerry friend to keep a closer eye on his ward."

Mycroft whirled around and stared at the bar. Then, promptly let out a string of curses under his breath.

In French.

Lestrade just stared at him for a good long moment.

"Okay, then." Lestrade said.

"Well, this is... tedious." Mycroft grunted, pressing his lips together grimly. "Excuse me, I have to find Harry."

"You go do that." Lestrade patted him on the shoulder and shoved him lightly in the general direction of his friend. "I'm going to go find Anthea."

"Won't be difficult." Mycroft huffed and walked off.

Lestrade did indeed find Anthea in under three seconds. All he had to do was follow the trail of googly eyed males.

And a few coy females.

"French." Lestrade whispered, fairly crashing into Anthea's side, garnering himself several heated stares from bystanders. _"French."_

"So you know." Anthea smirked, not looking up from her Blackberry.

"How is it possible for someone to curse in French with a posh English accent?" Lestrade pondered. "How?"

"Don't question how he does it." Anthea advised wisely. "Just accept that he does. And enjoy."

Lestrade just let out a hollow, miserable, chuckle. "My world will never be the same now that I've heard Mycroft Holmes curse like a sailor in French with an English accent, okay?"

Anthea looked up at him from her Blackberry and laughed at him.

The shrew.

"You're going to his tonight, aren't you?"

"You bet."

* * *

><p>"Why should I?" Lestrade whined from under the covers as Mycroft stood at the foot of the bed and dressed.<p>

"Indeed." Mycroft said, rolling his eyes as he buttoned up his shirt. "Why on earth should you keep tabs on the woman who is making a nuisance of herself to the Royal Family."

"But why should_ I_?" Lestrade repeated, a little more firmly this time, poking his head out from under the blanket.

"You know her." Mycroft replied simply.

"Uh, sorry, no. I'm cataloging that under the list of reasons why I _shouldn't_." Lestrade said.

Mycroft looked at him and raised his eyebrows in silent question.

"She stole my car and left me going up shit creek without a paddle." Lestrade grumbled. "In Mexicali!"

"And what were you doing in California with The Woman?" Mycroft asked him, slinging his tie over his shoulder.

Lestrade averted his gaze briefly before returning it to Mycroft. "Stuff."

"Stuff." Mycroft repeated, unimpressed. He planted his hands on his waist.

"Yep."

"Indeed." Mycroft nodded. "You two seem the type who would do so."

"Oh shut up! Can we not?" Lestrade huffed, shaking his head. "It was a long time ago. And I only slept with her once."

Mycroft blinked, expression unchanged.

"Well, twice."

Mycroft tilted his head.

"Okay fine, maybe a few times. But it was a horribly long job!" Lestrade defended himself. "Say another word and you're sleeping on the couch."

"I didn't say anything." Mycroft replied unrepentantly.

"That's it!" Lestrade jack-knifed up and pointed a finger at him. "You're taking the couch!"

Mycroft scoffed. "You can't do that. That's against the rules."

"Watch me." Lestrade snapped petulantly and threw himself dramatically back under the covers, turning his back to Mycroft in a very good impression of Sherlock throwing a fit.

In fact, that was probably exactly who he was acting out.

Mycroft let out a sigh.

Lestrade lay unmoving. He was a very patient man, and stubborn, he could probably out wait Mycroft.

Mycroft moved over and sat on the edge of the bed, carding his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Lestrade's head. "Hey."

Lestrade only grunted stoically in return and didn't turn.

"How about we strike a deal?" Mycroft proposed slowly.

Lestrade turned over and rested his head on his hand. "Listening."

"I'll get Sherlock to deal with The Woman." Mycroft said. "And in turn, you will look after Sherlock."

"And what will you do?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"I will earn my bed rights." Mycroft replied frankly. "But not tonight, I will have matters to attend."

Lestrade stared at him in stunned silence for a moment before collapsing on his back, covering his face with his hands, and giggling helplessly.

After a moment or two, Lestrade collected himself and removed his hands from his face.

"Oh, you're so confident, Mister Never-Had." Lestrade said with a smirk.

"I will kill Anthea." Mycroft responded flatly, but there was a faint sprinkle of blush running from his cheeks down his neck.

Lestrade dissolved into laughter again.


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty Four

"I - no. Get out." Lestrade snapped when he looked up from his usual place at the diner counter.

"I just want some coffee." Irene cooed soothingly.

Lestrade chewed on an unlit cigarette for a moment before lighting up. "What are you doing here?" he asked wearily.

"I was hungry and just happened to catch a glimpse of this lovely little cafe." Irene smiled. "Thought I might pop in."

Lestrade turned his palms and face upward. "This is my life." he said despairingly. "God, why?"

"I don't see why you keep asking Him pointless questions." Irene said. "I don't think he'll hear you."

"You are such an atheist."

"I didn't say He didn't exist, I just said you're probably on His 'ignore' list." Irene responded sympathetically.

"Great." Lestrade grunted. "Just my luck."

"So, coffee?"

"Instant it is." Lestrade grumbled, but started up his coffee machine anyway.

Irene took a moment to look around as Lestrade worked in silence.

"Love what you've done with the place." Irene remarked.

"Thanks. Had to redecorate." Lestrade said. "Mycroft bulldozed it earlier on in our 'budding tolerance' stage."

Irene huffed out a laugh. "You and Mycroft Holmes." she hummed. "I would have never imagined it."

"There is no 'it'." Lestrade reminded dutifully.

"There never is." Irene shrugged. "But there's always something."

"Friendly reminder that I'm taken." Lestrade said, handing her a mug of coffee.

"I think that's what we're talking about."

"Anthea!" Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to judge what goes on behind closed doors, but that's really good blackmail material." Irene smirked.

Lestrade choked on a breath of nicotine. "The PA!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "The girl with the Blackberry?"

"Oh." Irene shrugged, but looked a little put out.

"Jesus!" Lestrade ran a hand through his hair.

"So, her name is Anthea?"

"Don't actually know." Lestrade scoffed to himself.

"And you call yourself her lover."

"Shut it, you." Lestrade admonished. "And you stay away from her."

"Can't make any promises." Irene smirked. "She's such a pretty thing."

Lestrade stared disapprovingly at her. "I'm going to tell her you called her a 'thing'."

Irene ignored him.

They stood and sat in silence for a good minute.

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked finally.

"Oh, you know..." Irene flapped her hand unconcernedly at him. "The usual. Sex, blackmail, and scandal."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And what's the real reason you're here?"

Irene tapped a perfectly painted nail on the surface of his counter. A mother struggled briefly with a mewling newborn on her arm. Two blokes cordially clinked beer mugs.

Irene placed her coffee cup down on a folded napkin and leveled a grim look at Lestrade.

"I think I'm going to die." she said.

"I see." Lestrade shifted. "Well, if you're looking for help, this isn't the place to find it."

"I didn't come here 'looking' for help." Irene said calmly. "I came to take it."

Lestrade blinked and raised an eyebrow.

"I have information that you might want to know." Irene continued. "Information on a shared friend of ours."

Lestrade mulled over that for another minute. "I won't make any promises." he said. "But I'm listening."

Ten minutes later, Irene left the establishment.

Five minutes after that, Lestrade called Mycroft.

"Hey... so, about me keeping an eye on Irene... Turns out she's hiding out in a flat in Belgravia."

* * *

><p>"Yes." Mycroft grunted into his phone later that night as he tapped away on his laptop. "I see. Well, keep in touch, Anthea. If The Woman resurfaces, I want you to keep her in your sights."<p>

The front doorbell rang and Mycroft paused.

He had not been expecting visitors to his home at so late a time.

"I'll get back to you, Anthea. Yes. See to it that the drug in my brother's system does not cause more trouble than it already has." Mycroft continued.

The doorbell rang again.

"How are we on the police department front? I take it Inspector Dimmock picked them up?" Mycroft frowned. "Lestrade? Why...? Well, he did know where The Woman was staying. Yes. It was good of him to take them back to Baker Street before the police showed up. Yes Anthea, I will remember to thank him when I next see him. No need to nag."

The doorbell sounded noisily.

"No, no. It's the doorbell." Mycroft huffed. "How should I know? Yes... yes, goodnight." And he hung up.

He put his phone down on his desk and continued typing away on his laptop for a few moments before his phone buzzed with a text. He picked it back up.

_**Are you ever going to let me in? -Lestrade**_

Mycroft let out a muffled curse and stood, quickly striding out of his office to the front door. He hesitated for a moment, peering through the peep hole.

"I can see you casting a shadow, Mycroft." Lestrade stated dryly, bouncing on the balls of his feet boredly.

Mycroft unlocked and opened the door. "What are you doing here, Lestrade?" he asked. "I thought we agreed tomorrow night?"

Lestrade's expression suddenly took a turn for the apologetic. "Sorry, am I imposing?"

"No, no." Mycroft returned sarcastically. "I'm just trying to keep grips on The Woman."

"Okay." Lestrade shrugged understandingly. "You should've shooed me off before I broke your doorbell." He smiled a little and turned away. "Goodnight, Mycroft."

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "Stop. Lestrade, come back." Lestrade turned again. "You've come all this way, you might as well have a cup of tea before you go. And never let it be said that I am an inhospitable host."

Lestrade grinned and jogged back up the three steps to the door as Mycroft stepped back to let him pass.

"Sorry about this." Lestrade murmured as he brushed past Mycroft. "Didn't think you'd still be on the job."

"Lestrade, I am always on the job." Mycroft tutted as he led the way down the hall toward the kitchens. He paused and turned when he did not sense Lestrade following.

Lestrade stood thoughtfully in the doorway of Mycroft's office, staring at his desk with the open laptop, phone buzzing, papers scattered over the surface.

Lestrade looked at him with a slight frown. "You really are always on the job, aren't you?"

"Crime never sleeps. And there are always things to tend to, this Nation of ours." Mycroft shrugged. It was a fact of life. One that had been ingrained into his bones since the moment he had begun working for the government. He walked into the office and picked up his phone.

**_Irene has been spotted on our CCTV at Baker Street. -A_**

"So..." Lestrade pursed his lips thoughtfully. "No hobbies? No friends? Do you have days off?"

"I don't see how that concerns you." Mycroft snapped, slightly defensive.

This was not lost on Lestrade. Obviously, personal life was a sore subject to Mycroft... one that Lestrade was clearly not involved in.

Mycroft could see the exact moment this fact registered solidly in Lestrade's mind. He lowered his phone. "Lestrade, I did not mean..."

Lestrade held up a hand and nodded slowly. "Let's have tea, Mycroft." he said mildly, avoiding confrontation. "I'll get out of your hair in no time."

"Yes, of course." Mycroft responded hastily, stuffing his phone in his pocket. "This way."

They entered the sitting room where Mycroft left Lestrade to shed his jacket while he went into the kitchen and brewed tea.

This was a difficult situation. It would be tedious and awkward if Lestrade had somehow been offended by his blatant dismissal in regards to his personal life enough to end their... affair.

Mycroft frowned mightily into his teapot that he did not notice Lestrade walking up behind him, having wandered in from the sitting room after discarding his jacket.

"Hey." Lestrade placed a gentle, soothing hand on Mycroft's shoulder and the government agent jumped, whirling around. Lestrade chuckled softly in amusement. "Relax, Mycroft. It's just sex." Lestrade reminded him. "How personal can it get?"

Mycroft sent him a stiff smile and couldn't help but wonder if Lestrade's words were less of a rhetoric question, and more of a veiled dare to test the waters and calculate the precise answer.

"Of course." Mycroft replied. "Now go sit down, Lestrade, I am attempting to serve you tea. Stop distracting me and let me succeed."

Lestrade snorted and nodded. "Okay." Then he turned and disappeared back into the sitting room.

A minute or two later, Mycroft entered the sitting room to find Lestrade flipping through the paper as he waited.

Mycroft served tea.

Lestrade only made it through about half the cup when he put it down. "Hey look, it's late, I shouldn't keep you." he said, moving to stand.

Mycroft moved quicker and stood with a restricting hand on Lestrade's shoulder. Lestrade looked up in surprised, briefly frozen in an awkward half-stand.

Mycroft swallowed and loosened his grip on Lestrade's shoulder to a firm palm pressing gently downward, still giving Lestrade ample freedom to decide how he wanted to play out this scene and act accordingly.

Lestrade inclined his head slightly, keeping eye contact and slowly settled back down on the edge of the couch.

Mycroft's phone buzzed and Mycroft ignored it. He had stopped Lestrade from leaving. He had taken the lead. He would have no excuse to let himself be distracted now.

He slipped his free hand into his pocket, grabbed his phone, and tossed it onto the coffee table without looking, sending it skittering across the surface, over the edge, and clattering somewhere on the floor.

He slid his palm down from Lestrade's shoulder to his sternum and shoved him firmly against the sofa's back. Lestrade let him do what he liked, curious to see where Mycroft would go from here.

"I..." Mycroft flicked his tongue out nervously. "I believe there was some remark made about 'bed rights'?"

There was a flutter in Lestrade's gut and his pupils dilated. Mycroft was close enough to see.

Then, his mouth was on Lestrade's. The chef's eyes widened and he remained motionless for a moment or two in shock.

Now, as an unspoken rule, the extent of Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship consisted of sex, Sherlock, and spying. There were brief touches, the light brush of a hand, a flirtatious quip, and a night over at Mycroft's.

But kissing was not a thing they did. It was... intimate. Personal.

Quite honestly, ground shattering.

Lestrade let his eyes slide closed and opened his mouth, curling his hand around the back of Mycroft's neck.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry to all readers but I'm going to be going on vacation with my family and won't have access to a computer for about a MONTH! This will be my last update for a while. Persevere without me!**


	26. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

The first thing that Mycroft noticed the next morning was that the mattress beside him was cold and that meant that Lestrade was already gone.

Which really wasn't a surprise because Lestrade had early mornings to open shop.

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face and sat up. He had a slight feeling buzzing in the back of his brain like there was something he was forgetting.

Then, it clicked.

He scrambled elegantly out of bed and fairly ran to the sitting room in his dressing gown, snatching up his phone.

He had three missed texts.

_**What should be done, Sir? -A**_

_**We've lost her. -A**_

_**She's gone. -A**_

Mycroft dropped his head in his hands and let out a sigh.

And here he was claimed to be omniscient. He should have seen this one coming.

He frowned at his phone and briefly wondered if Lestrade's decision to come over on the night that Irene Adler visited his brother and then skipped town really was coincidence, or conspiracy? But it had been Mycroft who had kept him from leaving... or had Lestrade manipulated him into letting him stay?

Honestly... for someone who claimed to be on his side, Lestrade seemed to be working for everybody else.

The bastard.

But that only portrayed the life of a spy. This was why he trusted such delicate situations to Sherlock, and not the Intelligence Services.

They all spied on people for money.

If only Mycroft could deduce what _Lestrade_ spied on people for.

* * *

><p>"I could've used some orders last night." Anthea said coldly as she and Mycroft drove down to Baker Street to visit Sherlock and John.<p>

"I'm sorry, I was otherwise occupied." Mycroft apologized.

Anthea was silent for a good moment before turning her piercing gaze on him. "You were with Lestrade, weren't you?"

Mycroft averted his gaze.

Anthea coughed and turned back to her Blackberry.

"I know." Mycroft muttered in answer to her non-verbalized scolding.

Mycroft had gotten close to Lestrade to stop him if the need ever arose, not so that Lestrade could sabotage _him_.

* * *

><p>At the same time, in a different vehicle driving in the opposite direction, Irene toyed idly with her phone.<p>

"By the way..." she smiled at the driver. "... thanks for last night."

Lestrade sighed. "You make it sound like I slept with _you_ last night."

Irene chuckled. "Just drop me off at the airport, I'll be out of your_ gorgeous_ hair."

"You better be." Lestrade grumbled. "You always seem to turn up like a bad penny."

"Well, I think this time is for real." Irene hummed to herself.

Lestrade glanced at her out of the corner of his eye but quickly returned his gaze to the road. "That's not my problem."

"I guess not." Irene typed out a text on her phone.

**_Good morning, Mister Holmes._**

They continued driving.

* * *

><p>"Sir, I think you need to see this." Anthea said grimly, angling her phone in his direction. "This was taken from one of the security cameras at the airport."<p>

Gregory Lestrade and Irene Adler in the same picture.

Irene Adler boarded a plane.

Lestrade did not.

Mycroft frowned.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was busy taking orders at the diner when Mycroft stalked in. The government agent grabbed him by the shirtsleeve without a word and dragged him off into the kitchens amidst protest and sheepish apologies to the baffled customer.<p>

Harold quickly jumped in and resumed handling the patrons, sending Lestrade and Mycroft concerned looks.

Out of sight, Mycroft shoved Lestrade against the refrigerator in the kitchen and Lestrade let out a low laugh.

"Now that's what I call 'playing rough', Mycroft." he said.

"Shut up." Mycroft snapped. "Where has she gone?"

"'Shut up', 'talk', you're so confusing." Lestrade rolled his eyes.

Mycroft slammed his hand against the refrigerator, causing Lestrade to flinch slightly. "I'm not in the mood for your games, Lestrade."

Lestrade grabbed Mycroft by his lapels and swung him around, roughly trading positions. "And I'm not in the mood to be pushed around." he growled back.

Neither of them spoke again until the contents of the poor refrigerator stopped rattling.

Lestrade stepped back, running a hand over his face. "Look Mycroft, I'm sorry about Irene Adler. This..."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow with an icy silence.

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh. "I have to go." he turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft asked, catching his arm and holding tight.

"I have to go with Irene." Lestrade mumbled.

"What?"

Lestrade jerked his arm out of Mycroft's grasp.

"I have to go. I'm sorry." Lestrade smoothed his clothes down. "I'll be gone by next week."

Mycroft just stared at him as Lestrade walked out of the kitchens and assured Harold that everything was alright with his usual bright smile.

The liar was gone by nightfall.

* * *

><p>"It's closed." John stated needlessly since it seemed his friend wasn't going to.<p>

Sherlock huffed at him. "As usual, your sense of observation continues to serve you well." he grunted.

They both just stood for a moment outside the dark diner, staring at the 'CLOSED' sign in the door, a bit at loss for what to do.

Neither of them, in all their time knowing Lestrade, could remember a time when they saw Strangers Cafe closed.

A second floor window opened and Donovan poked her head out to look down at them. "Oh, it's you." she noticed.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock asked brusquely.

"Dunno, said he had to leave." Donovan shrugged. "Something about a family emergency. He's been in France since a week ago."

"Christ, is he okay?" John asked, craning his neck a little to look up at the sergeant.

"He went in a rush, left a note and was gone before I got back from work." Donovan shrugged. "I've been trying to get him on his phone, but he's not picking up."

"Remind him to get an e-mail account when he gets back." John suggested.

"First on my to-do list." Donovan sighed. "Maybe that posh brother of yours knows where he is?"

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft? He's got better things to do."

Donovan's eyes hardened and everything about her seemed to turn instantly into ice. "Right."

John looked at Donovan, and then at Sherlock, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Sherlock was not so perceptive. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing." Donovan grumbled.

"Sherlock, maybe we shouldn't-..." John tried to say, but Sherlock cut him off.

"My brother is the British Government." he stated matter-of-factually. "He does not have time to take on private matters."

"Listen here, you little shit." Donovan snapped, leaning out of the window. "Your brother and Anthea have been monopolizing my friend, they're the closest people to him now besides me, I'll have you think twice about Lestrade not being worth their time."

Sherlock stared up at her in confusion and a little shock. "They've been-... meeting?"

Donovan huffed in exasperation. "You really know nothing about them, do you?" she said scathingly. "Your brother drops by at least once a week and Lestrade is dating Anthea."

"Really?" John exclaimed. "_That_ Anthea? With-... with the phone?"

"For the last few months." Donovan tilted her head. "You _really_ didn't know? And you claim to be so clever."

Sherlock was on his phone even before Donovan finished letting out the jibe.

Mycroft picked up on the fourth ring.

"Where is he?" Sherlock growled.

_"Where is who?"_ Mycroft asked back. _"And what do you want with him? Considering your answer, I may or may not answer."_

"Lestrade. Where is he?" Sherlock ground out impatiently.

_"And what makes you think I know?"_ Mycroft sighed._ "I don't actually spy on** all** of your friends."_

"No, just the one that you see every week." Sherlock smiled sweetly. "The one your minion happens to be _dating._" he spat out the word as if it would give him cooties. "How is your diet? Or should I ask Lestrade? Oh wait, I don't know where he is. Did you have him disappear?"

There was a heavy sigh on the other end. _"That's none of your business."_

Sherlock glared at his phone for a moment before shoving it into John's face. "John. I rely on you for emotional cajoling."

John sent Sherlock the most exasperated look imaginable, but took the phone. "Mycroft? Hi, John."

_"Good evening, John."_

"Where is Greg, really? We were supposed to go down to the pub tomorrow night and I'm a little worried I'll go crazy if I stay in another day with Sherlock." Sherlock looked affronted, John just glared back.

Mycroft sighed again. _"Well, despite what my brother may think, I do not actually have Lestrade tied up in the boot of my car. He is in France, like he said he was. He is visiting his family. He has informed Anthea that he is still unsure of when he will be back. Do behave yourselves until then, like mature adults."_

John handed the phone back to Sherlock. "If possible, he's even more annoying than you are." he grumbled.

Sherlock took the phone back. "Well?"

Mycroft hung up.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Where are you? -MH<strong>_

Mycroft placed his phone on his desk and entwined his fingers, staring thoughtfully at it.

After a moment, he picked it up again.

**_I'm sorry for my behavior the last time we met. I completely realize that I made a big commotion over something we both knew. -MH_**

**_As you have warned me time and time again: you do not work only for me. And I forgot that. -MH_**

**_I can only apologize. -MH_**

Mycroft toyed with his phone for a minute or two.

_**Come back. -MH**_

Mycroft sighed and deleted the message, sitting back in his seat and clasping his hands under his chin, thinking about how much he actually missed Lestrade sitting on the edge of his desk, feet kicking haphazardly, and absolutely refusing to do the paperwork for 'that guy I killed for the thing'.

Which usually ended with Anthea walking in and pinching his ear until he acquiesced.

Which led to late nights and coffee with smuggled desserts that Lestrade made and Mycroft wasn't supposed to eat.

But he always did.

Mycroft shook his head and picked up his phone.

**_Come back. -MH_**

Not even a minute passed when his phone buzzed.

**_If only you'll open the bloody door. -Lestrade_**

Mycroft was up and running before he could think twice.


	27. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

Mycroft threw the locks on his front door and slammed it open. He did not see Lestrade at first.

That is, until he looked down.

Lestrade was sat on the bottom step of the five leading up to Mycroft's door. There was a worn black duffel bag on the ground by his feet.

"Lestrade-... are you alright?"

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft the moment he heard the door open.

He looked like Hell. To be fair, both looked like Hell. It was, after all, in that window of time where you weren't sure whether the hour was considered late, or early.

Lestrade must've seen something in Mycroft's expression because he let out a soft snort and self-consciously ran his hand down the light stubble on his chin. "You try looking this good after an eight hour flight in economy between a bawling child and a gassy flier. And I had to rush to catch the last train here, not to mention finding a cab at this hour."

"You're-..." Mycroft made a 'running-on' gesture with his hand.

"Yeah, I am." Lestrade acknowledged as he stood, picking up his bag. "I'm exhausted. And sore from arse to neck. Hollywood contract killers never had these sort of problems in the movies."

"Why didn't you go home?" Mycroft asked him as he stepped aside to give Lestrade space to pass.

"Because Donovan. And the Cafe. And for reasons." Lestrade grumbled. "Too many questions for me to answer running on too few cylinders." He blinked owlishly at Mycroft. "I might actually tell her the truth."

Mycroft snorted. "Now that would be a problem."

Lestrade let out a grunt and tossed his bag at the foot of the sitting room couch.

Mycroft raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I hope you don't think you're sleeping there."

Lestrade looked at him sheepishly. "You were really, really angry the last time I saw you. I didn't think..."

"I'm not offering my bed, Lestrade. However, I am not completely heartless and I recall you mentioning that your back is in pain." Mycroft reminded. "Also..." he faltered.

"Also?" Lestrade encouraged.

"I wouldn't ask you to come back if I only wanted to chase you off again." Mycroft stated firmly.

Lestrade blinked rapidly a few times, slightly taken aback. "Oh... um, okay." He smiled a little. "Thanks."

"Oh don't thank me yet." Mycroft huffed. "I've had enough commotion for today, tomorrow is a different story. I still intend to make life difficult for you."

"Not off the hook yet, then?" Lestrade grimaced.

"Not by a long shot." Mycroft replied coolly.

"Well... if it's worth anything, Irene won't be a menace anymore." Lestrade said with a false nonchalance.

Mycroft considered the implications of the statement.

"She's decided she's going to die." Lestrade elaborated casually as he shrugged his jacket off. "She won't let me interfere."

Mycroft remained silent, unsure of how he should react to the news.

Lestrade caught his thoughtful look and huffed. "But let's get this straight right now: she's not going to stop me from trying. I'm never not going to try."

Mycroft inclined his head and squinted. "You know, sometimes if I consider you in a certain light, you might actually be a decent person... but only to the strangest people." he mused aloud.

Lestrade made an affronted expression. "Excuse me. I'm an awesome person. To _everyone._" He paused and reflected on his past actions. "Except to you. I'm an arse with you. Sorry about that."

"Occupational hazard, I reckon." Mycroft drawled.

Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah. Bit of a teamwork effort."

"I will prepare the guestroom." Mycroft announced and raised an eyebrow at him in disapproval. "Shower. Now."

Then, he turned and strode off.

Lestrade self-consciously sniffed himself and grimaced. "Like I said: movie assassins never had this problem." he sighed and picked up his bag.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Lestrade was startled awake by the door of the guestroom slamming open, striking the wall with a loud thud.<p>

The contract killer fairly jumped out of bed, gripping his covers in front of him in a way that might look like a flimsy defense, but was probably hiding a gun in the folds.

Anthea regarded him with a cool look, unperturbed by his shirtless state. "Good morning." she greeted calmly.

"Good-..." Lestrade yawned long and hard. "-... morning."

"I'm to keep track of my boyfriend." Anthea announced.

"Yeah." Lestrade grunted with a rueful smile. "Good luck with that."

"You're going to lead my boss to Irene Adler." Anthea continued tonelessly. Less of a firm statement and more of an order.

"Eventually." Lestrade shrugged. "Dead or alive."

Anthea's cold exterior finally broke and she rolled her eyes. "But seriously... family business? In France? That excuse stood up to Sherlock for about 0.5 seconds."

"I was in a hurry!" Lestrade complained. "I would've completely lost Irene's trail."

"_I_ was trailing Irene Adler!" Anthea retorted.

"For_ Mycroft_." Lestrade said pointedly. "And that was a problem."

"For the love of God, will you just choose a side and stick with it?" Anthea huffed, exasperated. "Mycroft _likes_ you, can you at least be a_ little bit_ nice to him?"

"That's no fun." Lestrade joked.

"I get that you've got a job to do, but so do I." Anthea growled, narrowing her eyes. "And mine entails castrating you and doing very ugly things to your remains if you keep leading my boss on."

Lestrade swallowed thickly.

"Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Anthea let out a long breath and then flipped her hair nonchalantly. "Now, would you like some breakfast?" she asked sweetly.

"Yes, but hopefully when I've got clothes on." Lestrade responded gingerly.

"Oh it's not like it's anything we've never seen, boyfriend." Anthea smirked, but walked out, not bothering to close the door after herself.

The menace.

Lestrade gathered up the rest of his blanket in bunches around his waist and shuffled awkwardly to the door, nudging it shut with a toe just as Mycroft passed by down the hall.

"I don't even want to know." Lestrade heard from beyond the closed door.

"Just keep walking, Mycroft." Lestrade sighed heavily. "Please."

There was a quiet chuckle and the footsteps continued their journey to the dining room.


	28. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty Seven

The clinking of silverware on plates was deafening in the silence.

Mycroft and Anthea shared considering looks. Anthea glared at Lestrade. Lestrade ignored the stare and kept his eyes down on his plate, looking up precisely once to plead desperately for Mycroft's help with his eyes.

"So..." Anthea broke the silence and Lestrade nearly dropped his fork. "Would anybody like to talk about anything?" Anthea smiled impishly, appearing quite pleased at Lestrade's reaction. "The weather, perhaps?"

Mycroft took a thoughtful sip of his tea. "No." he replied at length.

"Anthea barged into my room this morning and threatened to cut of something precious to my anatomy." Lestrade blurted out. "Is that a thing we can talk about right now?"

"Shhh." Anthea cooed serenely waving her table knife at him in a dismissive way that was non-threatening... except it might be. "No."

Mycroft looked from his subordinate, to his asset, and set his cup down with a despondent sigh. "Oh Lord, I truly am a Holmes." he said morosely. "Sherlock is not even directly involved here and look at my life."

"Perfectly tailored by your own life choices, sized down conveniently to fit your dining room table." Lestrade agreed mildly. "With enough space to stay out of each others' reach."

Anthea stared down at her knife contemplatively.

Mycroft massaged his temples. "Anthea, why have you... threatened Lestrade?"

"For reasons that are classified." Anthea responded primly.

"Would you care to declassify them?" Mycroft prodded.

"Is this because I made you lose Irene?" Lestrade asked. "It is, isn't it?"

"You may think that, I could not possibly comment." Anthea replied with a tone like ice sprinkled with salt. Smooth, cold, and underlined with a trace of grit.

"You are. You are so mad at me." Lestrade grunted. "I said I was sorry."

"I was literally sitting on my thumbs waiting for an order." Anthea went on angrily. "In front of at least five other agents also awaiting orders."

"I'm sorry." Lestrade repeated sincerely, grimacing at her embarrassment.

"I feel I should also apologize." Mycroft added uncomfortably.

"I don't want to have to talk about this with you two. Ever. Oh my God. No." Anthea shuddered.

They fell into another stretch of silence.

"How was France?" Mycroft asked Lestrade casually.

"Humid." Lestrade replied brusquely in a way that indicated that he had never gone there in the first place. "How was London?"

"Quiet." Mycroft shrugged. "I'm beginning to think you took all the trouble with you."

Lestrade smiled a little. "I don't think Sherlock could fit in my duffel."

"Oh if only he could." Mycroft sighed sadly.

"Tragic." Anthea muttered under her breath as she skewered a piece of egg on her fork.

"But, more to the point." Mycroft interrupted. "Lestrade, where do we stand on Irene Adler?"

"We don't. God, Mycroft, you don't treat a woman like that-..." Anthea kicked Lestrade in the shin under the table so loudly that Mycroft's cup clinked slightly in its saucer. "Ow! Jesus!"

"Just answer the question, and no smart remarks." Anthea ordered quietly as she intently smoothed out the already crease-less napkin on her lap.

Lestrade ran his tongue over his teeth and placed his silverware down as he considered his answer.

"Irene Adler... is an asset that I can't lose just yet." he began. "She has information on much more than government scandals, information that is essential in my line of work: who is working with whom, who backstabbed whom, which agents are left out in the cold, you know..."

"And?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"When I first left with her, she was feeding me information in return for protection. I had her situated in a safehouse down in Manila where she could keep out of sight." Lestrade explained. "However, she decided that he wanted to come back to London and took off before I could stop her. She's here, so I'm here. I'll turn her over to you if I find her in time as long as you keep her alive, and I get my information."

Anthea and Mycroft shared a silent conversation using nothing but raised eyebrows and a series of blinks.

"You know..." Lestrade spoke uncomfortably. "I'm right here. I can read your looks and it feels like I'm eavesdropping."

Mycroft and Anthea looked at him.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade." Mycroft sighed. "We weren't-..."

"You were considering the famous 'asset vs sentiment' argument in regard to my relation to Irene." Lestrade stated blandly. "This is like... a mental threesome. I like it." he grinned jokingly.

"Don't drag me down to your level, you awful creature." Anthea snapped, jabbing a finger in his direction.

"We can have three-way conversations in the diner over Sherlock and John's heads without the interruptions." Lestrade went on, deadpan.

Mycroft and Anthea settled him with twin glares that needed no psychic link to receive the message loud and clear.

"Alright." Lestrade raised his hands in surrender. "Shutting up now."

* * *

><p>Donovan had four hours left on her workday and was two-thirds into her case report when the steaming styrofoam cup appeared on her desk.<p>

Two very familiar hands leaned on the edge of the desk on both sides of the cup and Donovan looked up.

Lestrade smiled warmly, fairly leaning over her. "Hi. What are you up to?"

Donovan was on her feet in a violent jerk that had Lestrade cupping his hands protectively around the coffee, and pulled him in for a rare hug.

"Where were you, you jerk?" Donovan snapped, stepping back and taking the coffee from Lestrade. "You could've called. And who let you in here anyway?"

"Eh... I charmed the receptionist." Lestrade scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "And, sorry. I was sort of busy. By the time I remembered to call, I was about to come back."

"What happened?" Donovan asked worriedly. "Are you alright?"

"Ah, my dad." Lestrade grimaced, eyes lowering. "He wasn't doing to good health-wise. My older brother lives close by and looks after him but he was out of the country on his honeymoon so I had to make a mad dash."

"Sorry to hear that." Donovan frowned. "You didn't tell me you had a brother who was getting married."

"And I didn't attend the wedding." Lestrade nodded. "Wasn't invited. We don't really get along."

Donovan shook her head sadly. "Sorry."

"Ah, that's family." Lestrade shrugged. "What can you do?"

"Is your dad alright?"

"He's doing better. My brother came back and I hightailed it out of there." Lestrade grinned ruefully. "He has it all under control."

"Well, it's good to have you back." Donovan patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"Thanks, Sal." Lestrade smiled back.


	29. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty Eight

"I take it the diner is open again?" Sherlock remarked when he found Lestrade in the kitchen at Baker Street, stuffing food into the fridge again.

And - as always - his visits were uninvited and unannounced.

"Yeah, thought I'd drop by and say 'hello'." Lestrade nodded, peering into a container of salad to make sure nothing had spilled out on the trip over. "Hi, I'm back."

"Evidently." Sherlock grunted as John pushed him aside.

"Oh, you're back!" the doctor greeted pleasantly.

"Hallelujah, he's not blind!" Sherlock grumbled sarcastically under his breath as he trundled over to his sofa and threw himself face down on it.

John rolled his eyes at his flatmate before turning back to Lestrade. "Hey, Lestrade."

"Call me Greg, I already call you John." Lestrade smiled back. "You two on a case?"

"Just finished, actually." John nodded. "Sherlock's burnt out."

"Good, you hungry?"

"Starving, thanks."

Sherlock lifted his head once to mumble 'Greg?' under his breath and frowned before dropping his head back down to ignore the world.

* * *

><p>"Cat! Come here!" Lestrade exclaimed fondly as the feline slunk through the door. "Who's my favorite customer?" he cooed, scooping her up in his arms and scratching that spot behind her ear that made her purr like an engine. "I missed you!"<p>

Cat kneaded his chest with her paws and decided to make several neat little holes in the fabric with her claws in the process.

"I see you missed me too." Lestrade sighed and put her down to eat.

When he stood up, there was a very menacing gun in his face.

* * *

><p>Anthea's phone rang, which was rare. Nearly everybody who knew the number knew she preferred texting rather than calling.<p>

She picked up anyway, she knew the number.

"Lestrade?"

_"Do you want to help me hide a body?"_ Lestrade asked without preamble.

"Is this your idea of asking me out on a date?"

_"... Will you say yes if it is?"_

Anthea sighed. "Where are you?"

_"About three blocks away from my diner in a car that isn't mine. Hurry."_

"Who did you steal a car from?" Anthea rolled her eyes.

_"Whoever sent this guy after me."_ Lestrade replied._"I have a feeling we'll find answers if we know who's after Irene."_

"I'll be there in fifteen."

_"See you."_

* * *

><p>"Do you realize how much of my history I will never be able to tell my children, or my grandchildren?" Anthea asked with a heavy sigh.<p>

Lestrade looked at her. "Are you pregnant and didn't tell me?"

"No. I'm just saying." Anthea shrugged. "It's a possibility."

"Oh shut up and grab his legs, will you?"

"Do you have any idea how much I hate you right now?" Anthea asked flatly.

"You threatened to cut off my balls this morning." Lestrade reminded.

"More than that."

"Just help, okay?" Lestrade whined. "I promise: I'll find Irene, I'll find whoever this guy works for, and then you can exact your revenge."

Anthea raised her eyebrows.

"As long as it doesn't involve cutting bits of me off."

* * *

><p><em>"He's gone."<em> Mycroft got the call three nights later in the middle of keeping an eye on Sherlock and John on a case.

He could see John on his phone, talking to Donovan. Probably the good sergeant asking if her flatmate was with them.

Anthea was quiet on the other end of the line for a minute._ "What shall I do?"_ she asked.

Mycroft steepled his hands and pressed his lips to them contemplatively.

_"Sir?"_

Mycroft sighed. "He will return." he stated simply. "In his own time. I doubt he will make it easy for us to find him before he wants to be found."

_"Very well."_ Anthea returned._ "Mind, I'm not happy about it. But okay."_

"I am aware."

* * *

><p><strong><em>I'm at 221b Baker Street. I'll send you Irene's address. Merry Christmas, Mycroft Holmes. -Lestrade<em>**

* * *

><p>Sherlock leaned in and kissed Molly on the cheek.<p>

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." he said quietly.

Lestrade turned around, facing the kitchen, and fiddled with his phone.

**_Mantlepiece._**

He pressed send.

The Woman's erotic moan echoed through the room.

* * *

><p><em>"Oh dear Lord. We're not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?"<em> Mycroft sighed when he received Sherlock's call.

**"**I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight." Sherlock announced bluntly.

_"We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."_ Mycroft huffed.

"No, I mean you're going to find her dead."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Where are you? -MH<em>**

**_Party's over. No longer at 221b Baker Street. -Lestrade_**

**_Get back in sight. I hate you with such a vengeance. -Anthea_**

Naturally, Lestrade did not reply.

* * *

><p>"Look at them." Sherlock said to Mycroft in the morgue. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"<p>

And there's a regular Holmes household Christmas in a nutshell.

Mycroft shifted. "All lives end." he said, rolling his cigarette absently between his fingertips. "All hearts are broken." He leveled a warning look at his brother. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Sherlock returned the look and barely resisted asking how his brother could possibly know that.

A part of him belatedly realized he didn't want to know the answer.

Instead, he settled for a sigh, exhaling the smoke. He grimaced. "This is low tar."

"Well, you hardly knew her." Mycroft replied mildly.

Sherlock grunted and strode off down the hall. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

"And a happy New Year." Mycroft replied dutifully.

He waited until Sherlock was gone before calling John to warn him about his brother's state.

He glanced out of the window when he hung up.

This proved to be a stroke of fate.

In the building across the street, on the same level Mycroft was on, stood a man in a smart peacoat, the dark navy fabric contrasting with his silver hair.

Lestrade's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, slightly taken aback when he realized he had been spotted. Then, he nodded in acknowledgement before turning and walking, flickering in and out of Mycroft's sight down the row of windows lining the building as he walked away.

Mycroft turned and ran, possibly faster and further than he had in years.

He stabbed the elevator button and waiting all of five seconds before turning and scrambling down the stairs and out into the street.

Lestrade was just exiting the building opposite the street and the man walked off down the street without so much as a backward glance, not expecting to be stopped, or perhaps, expecting not to stop even if Mycroft called out to him.

Mycroft jogged across the street, ignoring the honk of a horn, and a cross shout from the driver.

Lestrade did not ignore this.

He turned around and caught sight of Mycroft. He stopped.

Mycroft doubled over, leaning his hands on his knees as he panted for breath. Then, he straightened himself.

"Are you going to run away again, Lestrade?"


	30. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty Nine

"Excuse me?" Lestrade's brow furrowed.

"You heard me." Mycroft huffed. "Are you going to run away again?"

"I-..." Lestrade paused, the same nonplussed look on his face. "Why?"

Mycroft inclined his head and finally caught his breath. "You just had that look on your face."

"What look on my face?" Lestrade retorted.

"The one you always have on when you know you're going to leave, but you say you're going to stay." Mycroft explained. "I know that look."

Lestrade shifted his weight from one foot to the other and averted his gaze. "You weren't suppose to see me." he said quietly.

"I had a suspicion." Mycroft huffed out a laugh.

"Irene is dead." Lestrade said suddenly.

Mycroft remained quiet and waited.

"I have no reason to run." Lestrade elaborated.

Both their private thoughts ran on but for the life of them neither could find the appropriate words.

"Good." Mycroft nodded at length. "That is... good."

"Yeah." Lestrade agreed hastily. "Okay. Um..." He scratched the back of his head. "See you at the diner, then?"

"See you then." Mycroft replied with a polite smile.

Lestrade shifted. "Um, bye then."

He stuffed his hands into his warm jacket pockets and walked away.

Mycroft turned in the opposite direction to find his car.

Then, Lestrade paused and turned around. "It's good to see you again." he called out.

Mycroft paused and also turned.

"With all that was happening, it just sort of slipped my mind." Lestrade went on.

Mycroft smiled a little. "It's good to have you back, Lestrade."

Lestrade nodded with a grin and walked off.

Mycroft returned to his car.

* * *

><p>Anthea was at the office when Mycroft returned. This was not unusual.<p>

The fact that she was holding Irene Adler at gunpoint - however - was.

"Are you going to shoot first and leave me to ask questions later?" Mycroft asked Anthea, eyebrow raised.

"She tried to follow me, presumably, to your home." Anthea responded icily, not moving her gaze from Irene. "So I came here."

Mycroft hooked his umbrella on a rack, shrugged his coat off, and tossed it over the back of a chair before seating himself in it. "So. Ms. Adler."

"Mister Holmes." Irene purred back.

"You're alive." Mycroft noted unnecessarily. He considered her for a moment. "And let me guess, you know someone in the hospital."

"I know what he likes." Irene nodded. "Would you like me to tell you what Lestrade likes?"

Mycroft pretended he didn't hear her and continued as if she had never spoken. "Which begs the question: why are you here? You should be halfway across the world if you knew what was good for you."

Irene inclined her head. "What makes you say that?"

"Because the world thinks you're dead and I have no qualms with continuing to let them think that... permanently." Mycroft replied flatly.

"Oh, so hurtful, Mister Holmes!" Irene admonished with a tight smile. "Unfortunately, you're not quite right about that."

Mycroft looked at her and silently waited for her to continue.

"I spoke to John Watson." Irene admitted. "Your tenacious brother followed him like a pup. People know I'm alive."

"Lestrade?"

Irene let out a low chuckle. "Of course Lestrade knows." she said. "He's my partner in crime. Did you think you could trust him?"

"Of course not." Mycroft huffed.

"Good." Irene pressed her lips into a thin line. "The only piece of advice I can give you about Lestrade is: he's not on your side. Keep that in mind."

"I have never forgotten that." Mycroft snapped.

"Could've fooled me." Irene smirked. "You sounded pretty desperate to get him back in your texts before he returned to London."

Mycroft stiffened minutely, but his expression never wavered.

Irene lifted a dainty hand and tilted her phone toward Mycroft. "Really? 'Come back'? That's what you went with?" she teased.

"You know, I've still got my gun on her." Anthea said coldly.

"And you know of at least sixteen different ways to dispose of her, but lets not ruin the carpet prematurely, shall we?" Mycroft returned.

"That man does treat his phones badly." Irene huffed. "It wasn't hard hacking into it. The password is always the date he got the phone. A quick snoop of the electronics files would tell you every password for every electronic he owns, including his phone and computer."

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me what was on that computer."

"No I'm not." Irene chuckled. "You're going to earn it. I. Need. My. Phone."

"You gave it to Sherlock for safekeeping." Mycroft pointed out.

"No I bloody didn't." Irene growled. "I gave it to Lestrade. He wouldn't accept it."

"So you're saying..." Mycroft frowned.

"Sherlock was never meant to get his hands on it." Anthea put in. "Lestrade's thrown a wrench in your scheme."

"And what a bad boy he is." Irene hummed ruefully. "Him, I'll deal with later. Your brother is a bigger problem."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft looked mildly curious.

"Take the phone away by force and he's bound to tear apart Heaven and Earth. He's like a dog with a bone." Irene told him. "Sooner or later, someone's going to notice. Someone's going to think he knows something. Someone's going to kill him."

"And if he does deduce the password?" Anthea asked.

"Then he gets the information. People will kill him anyway." Irene shrugged. "He's not the type that would find any use for the sort of information saved in that phone."

"And what do plan to do about this?" Mycroft asked pointedly.

Irene inclined her head. "I want... to beat him." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I want to be the first mystery Sherlock Holmes could not solve. I want him... to fail. You know what failure would do to a poor boy like him."

"You think it will make him back off?" Mycroft asked her.

"I'll make it so." Irene promised.

"How?"

"I will break his heart."


	31. Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Lestrade opened his mouth and inhaled as if about to speak, but the words didn't quite come out. He closed his mouth.

Irene raised her eyebrow and continued drying her hair on a towel that Lestrade was conflicted about telling her considering its history with Sherlock's failed experiments.

"Cat got your tongue, Lestrade?" Irene purred.

"Why are you showering in Sherlock's flat?"

"It's John's flat, too."

"But _why?_"

"Why are you bringing them food?" Irene returned.

"Because Sherlock doesn't eat."

"Oh really? Then you wouldn't mind me keeping that cute little trick box that Sherlock kept from that other case you seemed so interested in." Irene smiled sweetly.

"Ugh." Lestrade said. With feeling. "He's going to get himself killed if he keeps fiddling around with it like he is."

"You know, Sherlock's going to notice someday that his things keep going missing." Irene remarked.

"Yeah, John throws out his junk every week." Lestrade growled.

"Ivory isn't something most people just throw away." Irene pointed out.

"Well... it's Sherlock, he misplaces stuff all the time." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.

"Funny he's been doing it more often since you've come around." Irene teased.

"What are you going to do? Tell him?" Lestrade grunted.

"We both know I won't." Irene crossed her arms. "Unlike somebody, I don't just give away secrets."

"This is about the phone, isn't it?" Lestrade realized.

"What possessed you to give it to Sherlock Holmes? Of all people?" Irene complained.

"Because he's probably the one man that can stand in your way." Lestrade replied frankly. "I wanted to see what would happen. ... For science, and stuff."

Irene slapped him smartly across the cheek.

"It's good to have you back." Lestrade laughed ruefully and rubbed his face.

Irene smiled. "I missed you too."

"So what's the plan?" Lestrade asked her.

"The plan is that you're going to leave right now." Irene stated. "Sherlock will be back any time now and I don't want you around when he does."

"Uh, John's probably going to be there, too." Lestrade pointed out.

"Shame, really." Irene muttered.

"Right, well I'm just going to..." Lestrade pointed vaguely toward the door before belatedly following his own directions.

Irene snorted and brushed her hair with her fingers.

"I think I have time for a nap."

* * *

><p>"Sergeant Sally Donovan, how dare you!" Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated, planting both hands on his hips. "Look at this mess!"<p>

Donovan ducked her head sheepishly like a scolded child. "I was busy!" she defended herself.

"There are layers of dust thick as a dictionary in places there shouldn't be." Lestrade went on.

"I had cases while you were gone." Donovan pointed out. "In my defense, you were gone for a long time!"

"Yeah but...!" Lestrade splayed his arms out. "You live here!"

"Actually..." Donovan began, but quickly cut herself off. "Nevermind."

Lestrade crossed his arms. "Sally Juniper Donovan, you finish your sentence right now!"

"I kind of - sort of - live over at Anderson's now?" Donovan said cringingly.

"Anderson." Lestrade repeated slowly, eyes narrowing. "Anderson, as in, work Anderson? Married Anderson?" He mimed long-ish hair with his hands. "_Anderson?_"

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Yes, that Anderson! Which other Anderson is there?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Lestrade asked. "Because I'm pretty sure we've met at least three different Andersons since moving in together."

"Anderson." Donovan ground out. "From forensics. At the police station."

"But why?" Lestrade exclaimed in an agonized manner.

"Be-because it's my life choices, okay?" Donovan smacked him on the shoulder. "Now shut up, Dad!"

"Does Anthea know?" Lestrade asked, stepping away from the assault. "Because if she doesn't, I'm going to tell her."

"You shush!" Donovan screeched, grabbing after his phone.

* * *

><p><em>"Anthea? It's me. Donovan's-... hey, watch it!"<em>

_"No! Shut up!"_

_"Shhh! Manners! I'm on the phone!"_

_"Give me that!"_

_"H-hey!"_

_"Anthea? It's Donovan. Whatever Lestrade says, it's all lies."_

_"Donovan's living with Anderson and I'm holding you personally responsible!"_

_"No, I-...!"_

**_Beep._**

Anthea stood staring at her phone, wondering what the message in her voicemail meant and when she missed it come in.

Mycroft glanced up from his desk and regarded her confused look. "What is it, Anthea?"

Anthea sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "Lestrade's back."

* * *

><p>Donovan tossed Lestrade's phone back to him. "You be quiet about my love life."<p>

"You live with a married man." Lestrade cradled his head as he tried to understand. "Where does his wife fit in?"

"She doesn't." Donovan shrugged. "They live separately."

"And you live with Anderson." Lestrade repeated. "What about Cat?"

"I come back to feed her, I'm not heartless." Donovan huffed.

"And what about me?" Lestrade pouted.

"You're a big boy." Donovan flicked his forehead fondly. "You tie your own shoelaces, and everything."

"You're abandoning me!" Lestrade whined dramatically.

"Stop being such a baby, Greg!" Donovan laughed. "I'm moving flats, not cities away."

Lestrade just frowned. "Fine..."

"Yes, fine." Donovan nodded. "But, just so you know: you still make the best coffee in London, so I'm really not going anywhere."

"That's what I like to hear." Just then, his phone rang. "Hello?"

"Anyway, I'm off." Donovan waved.

Lestrade glanced up briefly and waved absently. "Bye. Wait, what do you mean, you need a ride to the airport? I'm not a bloody cab driver!" He turned to watch Donovan's retreating figure. "I don't even have a car..."

The door closed behind Donovan.

"Of course I have a car, Irene, I had company. Now why are you off to Heathrow?"

* * *

><p>"Jim sends his love." Irene remarked casually as they drove.<p>

"Does he, now?" Lestrade responded in a bored tone but Irene could almost see his brain whirring behind his eyes, faster than lightning.

"I think he's jealous." Irene chuckled. "Ever since you stepped into the scene, you're all Mycroft Holmes ever occupies himself with."

"Well, that's the problem with genius." Lestrade sighed. "Always has to be the center of attention."

"You know what he calls them?" Irene asked.

"Do tell."

"The Iceman." Irene hummed thoughtfully. "And the Virgin."

Lestrade burst out laughing. "Well I think he's wrong on both points."

"Oh?" Irene raised an eyebrow delicately. "What do you mean?"

Lestrade glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the road. "I don't mean anything by it." he said with a shrug. "It's just a feeling."

"I can tell when you're lying." Irene said seriously.

Lestrade just kept his eyes on the road and pretended not to hear her.


	32. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty One

"I hope whatever's on that phone is good. It better be good." Lestrade grumbled as he gripped the steering wheel of his car and eased the vehicle onto the tarmac toward the rear of the plane. "I swear I'll kill you myself if it's Mycroft's baby pictures, or something."

Irene laughed. "I'm sure you can find ways to benefit from both."

"Still..." Lestrade grunted with a suspicious look. "It's not worth getting a gun shoved in my face."

"He was an adorable child." Irene went on. "Positively cherubic."

"Gun. _In my face._" Lestrade groaned as the car rolled to a stop. "I don't like that stuff."

A man walked up to the car and opened the back door for Irene.

"Thanks, sweetheart." Irene purred and elegantly unfolded herself to a swift stand, pausing only briefly to adjust her hair and to smooth out her dress.

She turned back and knocked on the front window.

Lestrade reluctantly powered it down.

"Thank you, Lestrade." she said frankly and Lestrade was afraid for one second that she was serious.

"Good luck, Adler." he replied and closed the window again.

Irene turned and sauntered off to the plane while the gentleman who opened her door loitered for a moment.

He had a rather large bandage over his face. And an angry bruising.

The man made a gun with his hand and mimed recoil through the glass at Lestrade.

Lestrade just smirked and showed him his real gun.

The man stopped grinning and stalked off.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and drove away.

At the edge of the airport, Lestrade slowed his car to a halt. Anthea walked out and invited herself into it.

"Well?" she asked.

"I brought Irene, Sherlock brought the phone, it's all up to Mycroft now." Lestrade shrugged and looked at her. "Do you think he's up for it?"

Anthea didn't say anything.

Lestrade frowned. "Anthea?"

"I don't know." Anthea said at length. "I've known Mycroft for as long as either of us were professionally valued assets, and I just don't know."

"Can I ask where all this doubt is coming from?" Lestrade asked her gently.

Anthea glanced down at her phone, blinked twice rapidly, and raised her gaze. "You."

"Me?" Lestrade asked, slightly stunned.

"You're one of Mycroft's most skilled assets, I'll give you that." Anthea said. "But you're the one who's going to get him killed one day." She placed her phone down in her lap. "I told you that I'd kill you if anything happened to him. But killing you won't stop it from happening."

"Anthea, you know why I'm involved with Mycroft." Lestrade said.

"A favor for a very old friend." Anthea nodded. "But you've got many friends and who knows how many favors you owe."

"Well with this I think I can consider Irene's crossed out." Lestrade mused aloud.

"What did she offer you?" Anthea asked him suddenly. "What did she give you in return for your help?"

Lestrade stared resolutely out of the front window. "Let's not talk about that."

"Why not?" Anthea pressed. "What have you done? What is she holding over your head?"

"I'm not that man, anymore." Lestrade snapped.

"It doesn't stop you from dragging around a ball and chain." Anthea remarked.

Lestrade fell silent and considered her. "No man is an island." he quoted wryly. "When you do the things I do, you... meet people. You can't function very well all on your own. You need to get jobs from someone, a gun, a car, a passport. And everybody demands a little repayment somewhere along the line. It's not a one job deal for a little extra pocket money. It's the one thing people never tell you about working freelance, once you get in, you can't get out."

Anthea furrowed her brows at him.

"Oh don't give me that look." Lestrade shook his head. "It's all about the survival of the fittest out there. You throw the wolves fresher meat and pray it gives you enough time to run."

"Why did you start?" Anthea asked him quietly. "You had a good career in MI5. What made you leave?"

Lestrade laughed humorlessly. "A ball and a chain."

"You're really not going to tell me anything, are you?" Anthea sighed.

"You never tell me anything about yourself." Lestrade shot back.

"There's not much to tell." Anthea shrugged.

"Oh come on!" Lestrade exclaimed. "I know you were diagnosed with a case of prosopagnosia when you were fifteen after a car accident that's why you always carry around that phone with all its shiny new super-spy apps to make up for your disability. On another note: John was legitimately hurt when you didn't remember him."

"Why don't I go apologize to him for having brain damage?" Anthea responded wryly. "He's a doctor, he'd be all over that."

Lestrade chuckled. "Maybe."

They fell into a deep silence.

"An umbrella." Anthea said suddenly.

Lestrade blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Something about me that you can't find in a government file." Anthea said to him. "With my qualifications I could've been PA for anybody in nearly any position. I chose to work for Mycroft Holmes because he always carried around an umbrella. As you mentioned: I don't remember faces all too well."

Lestrade smiled. "Only you, Anthea."

"I remember first meeting him in the hospital after I broke my leg after a bad fall. Mycroft - who was still a low ranking MI6 operative at the time - was visiting his brother, who had gotten into trouble and I just... liked his umbrella. It was custom-made, had a retractable needle on the tip and a removable handle that hid a short dagger. He was waiting for news of his brother and kept fiddling with it." Anthea smiled fondly at the memory. "And then when I went back to work, I saw that umbrella again and... I just, remembered him. By the time I made full-fledged agent status, he had already climbed a good ways up the ladder so I decided to work for him. And he just kept that umbrella around... I think he knows I might unwittingly ignore him if he leaves it at home."

Lestrade chuckled.

"He gave me this phone, you know? Made it standard issue for just for me." Anthea huffed. "It's got full facial recognition scanning apps and everything."

"Really?"

"Really."

Lestrade fell silent, smiling. "That was nice of him."

Anthea smiled back. "That _was_ nice of him, wasn't it?"

"So this is us." Lestrade mused aloud thoughtfully. "The man with a ball and chain, the woman who can't recognize faces, and the man with an umbrella."

"It's amazing how so many people are intimidated by us." Anthea agreed.

"We actually don't know anything... ever." Lestrade admitted.

"Makes me wonder why people trust us with anything." Anthea snickered.

"Because we're awesome." Lestrade nodded decisively.

"Yes we are."


	33. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty Two

Lestrade was at home washing out a few dusty pans when the text came.

**_'S-H-E-R'_**

Lestrade sighed and put his phone down on a counter to continue washing out his dishes.

Irene Adler was beaten.

* * *

><p>"Somehow, I expected you to barge in and mess everything up like you always do." Was the first thing Mycroft said to him on his first visit back to the Strangers Cafe since Irene came into their work lives.<p>

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked innocently.

Mycroft looked at him pointedly.

"I don't always mess things up." Lestrade defended himself. Mycroft kept his glare steady. "Alright, sometimes, but not all the time!"

Mycroft sipped from the coffee mug Lestrade offered him. He winced. "This is not the usual blend." he remarked slowly.

"Wanted to try something a little more exotic." Lestrade shrugged.

Mycroft took another sip. "Indian?"

"Got it in one." Lestrade nodded. "How did you know?"

"I received a gift of it from an acquaintance, once." Mycroft told him.

Lestrade leaned a hip on the counter and grimaced. "Not good?"

Mycroft took yet another sip. "Decent. Once upon a time, it used to taste like dishwater."

"Ah, the good old '90s." Lestrade groaned.

"Quantity over quality." Mycroft snorted. "They've stepped up their game."

"I wouldn't have bought it if they didn't."

They shared a smile, privately realizing the odds of them tiptoeing around each other in their respective careers so far back in time and yet leaving this unverbalized.

They wondered what the other was like in their primitive professional years.

"So." Lestrade said, louder than necessary. "You have access to Irene's phone and all the relevant content."

"Yes." Mycroft nodded. "The Americans seemed minutely displeased at this."

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the situation?" Lestrade asked. "The Americans are always hiding things from us, and we from them. What were those CIA agents so intent on retrieving?"

"Nothing that cannot be smoothed over with a few negotiations and peace treaties." Mycroft smiled wincingly.

Lestrade noticed this. "What?" he asked.

Mycroft deliberated a moment. "There was a photo of you on her phone." he said finally.

"I'm touched." Lestrade grinned and turned to wipe some non-existent smudges on his coffee machine.

"It really was quite incriminating." Mycroft went on casually.

"I was in my natural habitat." Lestrade complained.

"Is your natural habitat frequented with people like Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty?" Mycroft asked testily.

Lestrade did not answer, and instead asked Mycroft a question. "Did you tamper with government files in the event that I snooped?"

"What makes you say that?" Mycroft asked, inclining his head.

"It said that Anthea was diagnosed with a case of prosopagnosia after an accident when she was fifteen, however, a little birdie told me she was actually born with it."

"And you just admitted to me that you hacked government files." Mycroft remarked.

"I did no such thing." Lestrade pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "I_ do_ work for a high-ranked government agent, people just assume these files are already open to me. It was like a baby offering its candy to me with a gurgle-ly grin."

"I will be having words with them." Mycroft growled.

"You do that."

"Are you working with Jim Moriarty?" Mycroft asked him seriously.

"Am I working with you?" Lestrade asked.

"That's a trickier question to answer." Mycroft replied quickly.

"No it's not." Lestrade shook his head. "You decide what the answer is to that question, and you'll have the full extent of my working relationship with Moriarty."

"I hope you're not sleeping with him." Mycroft huffed.

"Of course not!" Lestrade exclaimed, appalled. "I am true to Anthea, love of my life that she is. But seriously, I'm not touching that man with a ten-foot pole."

"He's a bit insane, even for you." Mycroft agreed.

"Irene's taken to him." Lestrade shrugged.

"She's a bit insane, even for you." Mycroft reiterated flatly.

Lestrade laughed. "They're... really something. 'The way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close'." he quoted dramatically.

"Really?" Mycroft sighed heavily. "Really, Lestrade?"

"What? It's a good book!" Lestrade exclaimed righteously. "You need to read good literature sometimes, Mycroft, and enjoy it." He placed a plate with cake drizzled in chocolate sauce on the counter in front of him. "You need to learn to enjoy life."

"Coming from the man who is mostly to blame for making my life difficult." Mycroft rolled his eyes, but pulled the plate a little closer to himself.

"Wrong. I simply promote change. You're the one who's stubborn and refuses to come along for the ride." Lestrade defended himself, reaching haphazardly over the counter and squirting a portion of whipped cream from a can onto Mycroft's cake.

"You were talking to an insane psychopath who has killed many innocent people." Mycroft reminded him, exasperated.

"_You're_ talking to an insane psychopath who has killed many innocent people, right now." Lestrade reiterated with a casual shrug, spraying a tiny cloud of cream into his own mouth. "Funny how life is, isn't it?" He licked his lips and smiled brightly.

Mycroft just stared at him intensely for a long moment.

Then, he pushed himself up and hooked his umbrella over his arm. "I'll be going now." he said strictly.

"Sit down." Lestrade snapped, all his smiles suddenly gone. He slammed the can of cream onto the counter with a sharp bang and shifted. "You're not going to even ask what I was doing with Moriarty?"

"What's the point?" Mycroft asked. "It's not like you're going to tell me."

"You think I'm going to be so predictable?" Lestrade scoffed. "I know where Moriarty is. I'll tell you where to find him."

"And why would you do this?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.

Lestrade inclined his head with a slight smile and a twinkle in his eye. "Enjoy life, Mycroft." he reminded softly, tapping the cake dish with a fingertip. "Take the good days as they come."

Mycroft tapped his finger thoughtfully on the wooden handle of his umbrella intermittently.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Mycroft sat back down.


	34. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty Three

Lestrade blew silver puffs of air out of his mouth as he grabbed tree roots and pulled himself up a steep embankment with one hand while the other gripped a flashlight.

"And he calls this a vacation!" he panted unhappily when he reached the top of the moors and sank to the ground, exhausted.

He could see lights flickering in the distance from where he guessed the town to lie and was not encouraged.

He placed both hands on his hips and let out a heavy sigh.

"Last bloody time I take a babysitting mission." he grumbled and began making his way.

**_Snap!_**

Lestrade froze and held his breath, straining his ears. He could hear panting and large, heavy foot falls.

He instinctively reached under his jacket for his gun.

There was a rustle of underbrush to his left and he whirled around.

"Holy shit!"

* * *

><p>The day before...<p>

"Mycroft, no." Lestrade growled.

"Lestrade, it's not exactly a very big favor I'm asking you to do, and I need Anthea here." Mycroft said.

"I'm not going to into the godforsaken countryside to watch your brother chase around dogs!" Lestrade snapped as he began viciously beating a wrapped bag of graham crackers with a rolling pin. "I have diner to run, I have a cat to feed, and - and _responsibilities_, okay?"

"Anthea will take care of Cat." Mycroft declared.

Anthea raised her head with a 'who, me?' look.

"And where did that employee of yours, Harold, go?" Mycroft asked curiously.

"The Strangers Cafe was closed for ages, he's moved on." Lestrade replied testily.

"I will arrange for someone to look after the diner in your absence." Mycroft assured him.

Lestrade stared at him in horror as if he has just gruesomely skinned and eaten Cat in front of him. "No... just no."

Mycroft glared.

"Men in suits... running my diner?" Lestrade went on.

"They won't be wearing suits." Mycroft sighed.

"Stony-faced men who-should-be-wearing-suits with combed hair... my diner?" Lestrade looked quite near tears. "With polished shoes and buttoned cuffs...?"

"I'll get Stan to come around." Anthea suggested. "You like Stan."

"Stanley Hopkins?" Lestrade recovered his composure lightning quick. "Yeah, he'll do. Just tell him not to break my coffee machine or I'll kill him."

"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft said with feeling.

"You're welcome." Anthea responded absently as she typed away on her phone.

"Why does Sherlock need backup, anyway?" Lestrade asked.

"Because the situation has the potential to turn dangerous." Mycroft replied logically.

"You let him go to Belarus to see a murderer." Lestrade deadpanned.

"They were in a guarded jail." Mycroft snorted. "Even Sherlock couldn't have caused trouble in there."

"Did I mention that one of the two men in that visitor's room was the son of a butcher who carved up his girlfriend with a rather large knife?" Lestrade reminded him sarcastically. "Oh, and the other one was Sherlock Holmes. Anything could've happened."

Mycroft just leveled a glared at him.

"What exactly is down in Dartmoor?" Lestrade asked him sternly.

"Not a dog, I imagine." Mycroft sighed heavily.

"What? Then why is Sherlock out there?" Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"He thinks there's a dog, he's an idiot." Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. "He may not find a dog, but I do worry about what he_ does_ find."

"Mycroft Edwin Holmes, what have you done?" Lestrade groaned in exasperation. "What new shiny object is your brother chasing?"

"A military weapon, considered too dangerous to continue experimentation." Mycroft explained to him. "The project was shut down years ago."

"And somebody's going through old laundry?"

"That would be a way of putting it." Mycroft nodded. "This drug is known to cause permanent mental damage, so do stop Sherlock if he gets too deep. A mind like his would go to waste on drugs."

"I keep telling you, stop getting me involved every time your brother's name and 'drugs' show up in the same sentence!" Lestrade complained. "Besides, he's got John with him."

"John doesn't know we're looking at anything other than a massive black dog." Mycroft said.

"Well, Mycroft, when one is in a situation like this, one usually picks up the phone... and bloody warns them!" Lestrade snapped.

"Sherlock's going out there chasing a hound." Mycroft scowled. "What do you think his reaction would be if he knew there were... things like this, involved?"

"_You_ control him, he's _your_ brother." Lestrade snorted.

"If only I were so able." Mycroft sighed. "Will you go?"

"And what do I tell them if, or when, we run into each other over there?" Lestrade asked.

"You're an adventurous man." Mycroft shrugged. "Demon Dog? You wouldn't miss it for the world."

"... You owe me, so much."

* * *

><p>Back in Dartmoor...<p>

Lestrade let out a soft groan and opened his eyes. He raised a hand to his throbbing head and was pleased that it did not come away bloody. He sat up and looked up at the embankment he had just fallen down from.

Or had he been knocked down?

He could still hear the snap-cracking of fauna underfoot and the heavy panting of what sounded to be a rather large animal. At least it sounded smaller than he had expected. Smaller than the pictures they showed on the telly.

"No dog!" Lestrade exclaimed in exasperation, under his breath. "Mycroft, you ass."

A silhouetted figure slunk into view, black against the moonlit night. It turned its great big head slowly until its gaze rested firmly on Lestrade.

Then, it lowered its head and let out the deepest growl.

Lestrade raised his gun. "Well, you don't seem to have the... red eyes." he said aloud, more to himself. "And you don't look like you clawed your way out of Hell..."

The canine loped a ways down the embankment.

"I hope you don't intend to eat me." Lestrade went on nervously. "You know, Sherlock kind of wants you in court for murder."

The dog bared its teeth.

"Wow... you don't look too friendly." Lestrade admitted.

The dog tightened its haunches and leapt.


	35. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty Four

_"My idiot brother has broken into Baskerville."_ Mycroft hissed.

"He's been busy." Lestrade chuckled as he typed away on a laptop. "I'm sure he could handle it."

_"He broke into Baskerville using an ID that was clearly not his."_ Mycroft emphasized.

"Well then, I'm sure _you_ can handle it." Lestrade responded.

_"It seems there was no need for that, a Dr. Frankland gallantly came to his rescue."_

That got Lestrade to pause, fingers poised over keyboard keys, ready to resume his work. "Dr. Robert Frankland?" he asked curiously.

_"You know him?"_ Mycroft asked worriedly. He was always concerned about anyone Lestrade made any indication of knowing.

"I know the name." Lestrade continued jabbing at his laptop keyboard. "He's only one of Sherlock's biggest fans. Automatic alarms fired off there. Sherlock never has any normal fans."

Mycroft snorted at this. _"Indeed."_

"He's more interested in Sherlock's website than John's blog so I did a little poking around." Lestrade shrugged although Mycroft could not see it.

_"And?"_

"Fan of Sherlock's _and_ Dr. Frankenstein formerly of the CIA?" Lestrade smirked. "I think he should definitely be on your watch list."

_"I shall keep that in mind."_ Mycroft sighed._ "And I suppose you've been researching his history. Have you uncovered something incriminating?"_

"Hacking Baskerville's database... _now_." Lestrade finished his sentence with a louder, triumphant tap of his keyboard.

_"You are... hacking a military database."_ Mycroft rolled his eyes._ "Sherlock just walked in with 'unrestricted access'. Don't you think two blows in one day is a little cruel to security?"_

"Hey, if both Sherlock and I got in, they deserve a little cruel treatment." Lestrade shrugged unapologetically. "If it makes you and Baskerville feel any better, I'm going to snoop around in the CIA's dirty laundry after I finish here."

_"Wonderful."_ Mycroft said sarcastically._ "Going straight from threatening national security to international espionage."_

"It's fine as long as I don't leak anything." Lestrade huffed.

_"It's not alright!"_ Mycroft snapped back, horrified.

"Well, let's be honest, you're only going to try and stop me seriously when I've got the information you need." Lestrade teased.

There was a brief silence on the other end. _"Let's not be honest for one second."_ Mycroft said decisively.

"My lips are sealed." Lestrade chuckled. "Speaking of which: how about I tell you about the dog on Dartmoor than you very specifically said didn't exist?"

_"What dog?"_ Mycroft asked.

"Oh, I don't know, about waist height, probably ties me in weight, no glowing red eyes, however. And really bad breath." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "It's a tourist attraction of the inn's keepers. Monstrous thing."

He let his free hand drop under the table and something warm and wet touched it.

"I decided to adopt it."

**_"Lestrade!"_** Mycroft exclaimed, annoyed.

"It was lonely out there!" Lestrade whined back. "And malnourished! How else do you expect a well-fed dog to attack people so ferociously? Poor thing lives in a cave out on the moors, gets locked in when morning comes. I had a very calm and pleasant word with his owners."

_"Lestrade..."_ Mycroft tried to interrupt.

"I'm building a kennel the moment I get back." Lestrade said. "And I named him Ares."

_"Named after the untamed and violent Greek god of war."_ Mycroft hummed. _"Appropriate."_

"Also, I'm going to need a medical check up in case Ares has rabies." Lestrade said sheepishly.

_"How badly are you bitten?"_ Mycroft asked him_. "Can you function?"_

"It's just a little nip." Lestrade told him unconcernedly. "I'll live. But I'll need to stash Ares somewhere so I can be mobile. Don't want him out and about, causing ruckus."

_"I will arrange something."_ Mycroft said and typing could be heard on the other end. _"I think there was an unused lab in Baskerville..."_

"Don't kill my dog, I swear to God, Mycroft..." Lestrade said quietly.

_"The scientists work with animals on a daily basis, they have kennels, they are professional, and I assure you, they can see to Ares' health issues."_ Mycroft said placatingly. _"I won't let them run any experiments."_

"If he comes back drooling radioactive slime, I will kill you." Lestrade said after a long moment of contemplation.

_"If it saves me from having to conduct damage control over a radioactive demon dog, I'll even stand still."_ Mycroft replied simply.

"Fine. But tell your Baskerville people to be extra careful with him. He's not used to being around strangers, he's trained to bite, and he might have fleas." Lestrade rattled off as he gathered his jacket and sunglasses. "Now, if you will excuse me, I need to see a few fellows about a dog."

_"You do that."_ Mycroft nodded. _"And send me the data you hacked about Dr. Frankland."_

"Will do, Boss." Lestrade snickered.

There was a long-suffering sigh from the other end before Mycroft presumably gave up on a snarky response.

_"Oh, and Lestrade?"_

"Yes, Mycroft?" Lestrade smiled sweetly.

_"I hope you won't make a habit of adopting pets during missions."_

"No promises."

* * *

><p>After a day of hiking the moors, Lestrade stopped by the pub for a break and maybe a bit of drink before his appointment with Dr. Mortimer.<p>

No sooner had his pint been deposited on the counter in front of him when he heard a familiar, petulant voice.

"What the_ Hell_ are you doing here?"

Lestrade turned around to see Sherlock standing behind him, John just coming in after.

**_Oh dear._**

"Well, nice to see you too! I'm on holiday, would you believe?" he offered hopefully.

"No, I wouldn't." Sherlock grumbled.

"Hello, John." Lestrade greeted as John walked by.

"Greg." John smiled back, surprised, confused, but happy to see him.

"I heard you were in the area." Lestrade told them. "What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?"

Sherlock was a little more than unimpressed. "I'm waiting for an explanation, Lestrade. Why are you here?"

"I've told you: I'm on holiday." the chef shrugged.

"You're brown as a nut. You're clearly just _back_ from your 'holidays'." Sherlock pointed out.

**_Oops._ **"Yeah, well... maybe I fancied another one."

It took only 0.1 seconds for Sherlock to deduce the obvious. "Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?"

"No, look ..." Lestrade tried to protest.

"Of _course_ it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to- to spy on me_ incognito_. Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?" Sherlock scoffed brazenly.

John narrowed his eyes and pointed at Lestrade. "That's his _name_." he snapped at his friend.

That got Sherlock to pause. "Is it?" he asked as if it had never occurred to him that Lestrade might actually have a given name.

"Yes, if you'd ever bothered to find out." Lestrade hissed back. "Look, I'm not your handler ... and I don't just do what your brother tells me. I'm a bloody chef, not James Bond."

"No, Greg don't..." John groaned, gesturing toward Sherlock. "He doesn't know..."

Sherlock looked between them in confusion, his expression said everything about his ignorance.

Lestrade burst out laughing.


	36. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty Five

"I want to cry." Lestrade whimpered.

_"Quickly, tell me what invokes that kind of reaction."_ Mycroft said dryly. _"I'll be sure to use the information well."_

"I hate you." Lestrade went on. "And I hate this 'vacation'."

_"No really, Lestrade, what happened?"_ Mycroft sighed, hearing the absolute misery in Lestrade's voice.

"I told you about Ares." Lestrade began.

_"Yes, you did."_

"I had a few choice words with his previous owners and then I had to go back and ask them what all the meat was for." Lestrade groaned. "You should've seen the confusion on their face."

_"What was wrong with the meat?"_

"They are vegetarians." Lestrade replied flatly.

Mycroft snickered. _"Oh dear."_

"Of course we knew it was for Ares, but John didn't, and I couldn't tell him how I knew. And he looked so pleased with himself for assisting the investigation." Lestrade railed on. "It was awkward beyond imagination."

He could hear Mycroft still stifling laughter on the other end.

"I hate you."

_"I'm taking care of your dog, it's the least you can do."_ Mycroft replied crisply as if he hadn't just been wheezing silently into his fist a moment earlier.

"Luckily, John and Sherlock were occupied long enough for me to come up with a cover story about Ares and the reason why the Hound of Baskerville can't be him." Lestrade sighed. "I guess it wasn't a complete waste of time and dignity."

_"I suppose."_

"On another note: did you try to make John piss himself by sending him into the lab with Ares earlier?" Lestrade asked nonchalantly.

_"My brother requested an unoccupied lab."_ Mycroft shrugged. _"I expected him to conduct his experiments himself and only wished to play a trick on him, compensation - if you will - for stealing my IDs."_

"And where did things go wrong?" Lestrade asked patiently.

_"When Dr. Watson entered the lab and Sherlock didn't."_ Mycroft replied a little sheepishly._ "I was hoping to get back at the both of them. Turns out that Sherlock was also tormenting Dr. Watson in the name of science. Now that things have turned out the way they did, I just feel like a bully."_

Lestrade burst out laughing. "Poor old John! Glad it's not me."

_"Poor old John is correct."_ Mycroft said absently._ "This was just recorded on his phone."_

"Hold on, you've bugged his phone?" Lestrade huffed incredulously.

Then, he heard the woman crying.

"What the..."

**"_You've got to find Henry._"**

It took Lestrade's brain less than two seconds to place the voice while his brain kicked into overdrive. "Louise Mortimer." he said aloud.

_"Yes, it seems so."_ Mycroft replied grimly.

"Get me Henry Knight's whereabouts." Lestrade growled. "Maybe we can put this ghost to rest, once and for all."

_"Of course."_ Mycroft responded._ "And Lestrade?"_

"Yes, Mycroft?"

"Bring your gun." Mycroft said and hung up.

"Should I be worried?" Lestrade joked to himself. A moment later, his phone rang again. "Hello?"

_"Lestrade." _Sherlock's voice came over the line._ "Get to the Hollow. ... Dewer's Hollow, now. And bring a gun._"

The younger Holmes immediately hung up.

Lestrade stared at his phone.

"I don't... have a gun." he protested weakly to his dead phone. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I work with Mycroft, but I'm still a cook!"

He stood fidgeting for another moment, glaring at his phone before dialing back to Mycroft.

"Oh my God, he knows." he exclaimed dramatically.

_"Who knows what?"_ Mycroft asked back dryly. _"And keep it short, I'm quite busy."_

"Short version?" Lestrade responded testily. "Sherlock. Gun."

Which could result in so many outcomes.

_"Explain."_ Mycroft sighed impatiently.

"Sherlock told me to bring a gun to Dewer's Hollow." Lestrade expounded.

_"Ah."_

"So he must know."

_"Probably. He's one of the cleverest people I know."_ Mycroft said_. "Perhaps he knows, just doesn't care."_

"Why would he even think I have a gun?" Lestrade whined.

_"As far as my brother is concerned: you work for me, therefore you must be armed to some degree."_ Mycroft explained.

"Oh I'm armed, alright." Lestrade growled. "I've got a very large butcher knife-..."

_"Which, I'm sure you will continue using **solely** in your kitchen."_ Mycroft interrupted.

"-... And I'm very good at using it." Lestrade went on. "I will_ flay_ you if you let your brother run his mouth off about a downtown diner chef who shoots people."

_"Please don't."_ Mycroft said, deadpanned._ "I like my skin exactly where it is."_

"Then keep your brother quiet."

_"Now you're just sounding like Irene Adler."_

"No, I'm not!" Lestrade grouched. "And I'm serious!"

_"I can barely keep control of my brother better than you can."_ Mycroft reminded him.

"Well, that's your problem!"

_"Lestrade, just get to the Hollow. I'm sending you coordinates now."_ Mycroft deflected.

"I'm not bringing a gun, are you serious right now?" Lestrade swore under his breath to himself in at least four languages.

Mycroft just raised his eyebrows._ "Excuse your French."_

"Thank you, but_ you're not helping!_" Lestrade exclaimed, rolling his eyes.

_"I am indeed helping. I've sent coordinates to your phone."_ Mycroft sighed_. "Just follow the red pin that's on screen."_

"What if I want to use another app?"

_"You can't. I'm going to lock it. It's on GPS until you've finished the mission."_

"What if I need to text?"

_"Hacking your phone, now."_ Mycroft responded crisply, ignoring Lestrade's inquisitions.

The cold-hearted bastard.

The map popped up on screen.

"Fucking fine."

He shrugged his jacket on and reached for his gun. Contemplated for a moment, and then shoved it into his concealed shoulder holster and marched out.

A moment later, he marched back in, threw his gun under the mattress of his bed, and ran back out.

Time to catch a Hound.

Hopefully, without guns being involved.

Because he is trying to act the part of upstanding citizen, thank you very much.


	37. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty Six

"I think he was lonely without you." Dr. Stapleton smiled as she unlatched a waist high gate in a lab at Baskerville and Ares came bounding out, circling and nipping at Lestrade's jeans eagerly.

"You missed me?" Lestrade grinned, leaning down and extending his hand.

Ares jumped away cautiously and Lestrade let him do as he pleased.

"I think he needed to see a familiar face." Dr. Stapleton sighed, shaking her head. "Couldn't get him to stop barking and biting for hours while we treated him."

"Ah..."

* * *

><p><em>Earlier, on the moors...<em>

"I hope you know what you're doing, Mister Lestrade." Major Barrymore said quietly as he and several other military men crept quietly across the wet ground in the darkness.

"Oh come on, even if it was nothing, you were dying for a little action." Lestrade teased. "A little surprise drill is good for the reflexes. You'll stagnate here without a little excitement."

Major Barrymore smirked at that. "I won't argue with you there."

"Alright." Lestrade nodded gratefully. "Keep your men fanned out over the moors and out of sight. I'm expecting another visitor. Keep an eye out. And if things get rough..." Lestrade patted him on the shoulder. "You've got guns."

Major Barrymore looked at him. "You're not armed?"

"I don't want to risk it." Lestrade said, despite realizing the irony of the situation.

"It's a bigger risk not to take a weapon with you, Sir." Corporal Lyons cautioned dutifully.

"Noted." Both senior combat veterans responded simultaneously, tones dry as bone.

"Well then, Major..." Lestrade nodded. "Keep an eye out and mark anybody who ventures into the woods. Glad to be rid of that damn map. Now you can send me texts and I'll actually see them."

Major Barrymore looked slightly confused, but nodded back curtly.

Lestrade jogged off into the woods and followed his ears to where Sherlock, John, and Henry were.

"Sherlock!" he called out when he saw them.

Then, he belatedly saw the gun in Henry Knight's hand.

"Okay." John was saying to the hysterical man soothingly. "It's okay, mate."

After a moment, Henry let John take the gun away from him and everybody breathed a little easier.

"What the Hell is going on?" Lestrade asked John as Sherlock attempted to explain his theory about the Hound to Henry.

"It was a drug." John said to him. "We were drugged."

"Christ, are you alright?" Lestrade asked, concernedly.

"Yeah, we-..."

John's sentence was cut off by a heart-stopping howl.

Everybody jumped and whirled around, eyes directed upward.

Lestrade discreetly slipped his hand into his pocket but there were no notifications from Major Barrymore.

He felt cold.

The sound of the sea in his ears was deafening as blood rushed through his body, fully triggering his fight or flight response. Distantly, he could hear Henry whimpering and groaning. John shouting something at Sherlock. And then John's flashlight suddenly blinding him.

"-...g, are you seeing this?" John's voice suddenly sounded too loud.

Lestrade turned his head just enough to look at John and Sherlock without having to fully turn from the spectacle in front of them.

"Right, he is not drugged, Sherlock, so what's that?" John snapped at his friend. "What is it?"

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut in concentration as he struggled to make sense of what his observations were telling him.

He was wrong. And he was afraid.

"Alright, it's still there!" the detective conceded. "But it's just a dog. Henry, it's nothing more than an ordinary dog!"

The Hound howled again and crouched, preparing itself for a gigantic leap.

"Oh my God." Lestrade muttered under his breath, backing up a few feet.

Screw Mycroft and anymore of his 'vacations'.

Just as they legends depicted, the dog had glowing red eyes like large nuggets of Hellfire coal and teeth that were easily as long as a man's fingers, only infinitely sharper.

Lestrade gulped as he briefly imagined those large fangs sinking into his flesh and_ ripping_. "Oh, Christ!"

"No!" he suddenly heard Sherlock scream. "It's not you! You're not here!"

Funny, Lestrade always imagined that it would take more than this to drive Sherlock Holmes to insanity...

He turned to look for his friend and saw him gripping the lapels of a stranger's jacket.

There was a gas mask in Sherlock's hand and the stranger's face...

There was a brief flash of light in Lestrade's mind and he caught a glimpse of familiar thick auburn hair, eyes the colour of mahogany, and freckles dotting from nose to neck...

**_"... Lilies remind me of funerals, you know...?"_**

A smiling mouth with a gap tooth framed by lips that were always chewed to chapping...

**_"... You're always going to be there, won't you...?"_**

**_"... You always come back to this. So save me..."_**

* * *

><p><em>At Baskerville...<em>

"Mister Lestrade?"

Lestrade startled out of his reverie and smiled shakily at Dr. Stapleton. "Sorry, I was leagues away."

"I know." Dr. Stapleton nodded concernedly.

Ares loped over and brushed up against the back of Lestrade's legs, licking his hand.

"I'm sorry we couldn't hold him." Dr. Stapleton said grimly. "He just took off the moment someone left a door open. Major Barrymore mentioned seeing him on the moors but they didn't know whether or not to stop him.

"Ah, I can understand the confusion." Lestrade grimaced. "We were expecting a person to show up."

He squatted down to eye level with the massive dog and peered into the canine's face. "You're going to be okay, Ares. You're going to be just fine, aren't you? A bullet wound isn't going to stop the god of war, is it? Not even a crackshot like Captain John Watson is a match for you."

It had been a bit touch-and-go for Ares after John shot him on the moors. But luckily, Major Barrymore's presence so close on scene worked to their advantage and they were able to return Ares to Baskerville in time to get him medical treatment.

Ares rolled his pink tongue out of his mouth and panted, looking for all the world like he was smiling.

"That's right. You're already running around and stirring up trouble, aren't you?" Lestrade went on, scratching the dog fondly behind the ears.

This time, Ares didn't even move to distance himself.

"You're such a strong lad." Lestrade leaned in and buried his face in Ares's fur. "Such a good, stubborn, damaged dog."

Ares struggled briefly under the unnatural weight Lestrade put on him but quickly adjusted and regained his balance. It was not something he was going to get used to in such a short time.

Standing on three legs.

"Looks like we'll match just fine, you and me." Lestrade grinned. "You want to come back to London with me?"

Ares let out a sharp bark of agreement.


	38. Hiatus!

**NOT A CHAPTER!**

A/N: Okay, listen up (for those reading) I've been struggling a bit with my writing projects for a few months now and I've slowly - reluctantly - come to make the horrible decision to put this story on hiatus.

(Just like BBC Sherlock, muahaha!)

It's been a battle continuing to grind out chapters regularly, and recently I've started juggling two jobs on top of writing and studying. I just hope you understand my situation and accept that updates every week aren't going to happen anymore.

I barely have time to browse Mystrade on the internet, nevermind creating and writing out my own works! TT_TT This is extremely saddening.

And let's not even get started on all the TV shows I'm falling behind on by **_seasons!_** I've got two seasons on Criminal Minds, season and a half of Castle, never got around to even starting Firefly or the Classic Who series-... I've only watched eight episodes of Hannibal for God's sake! Etc...

I haven't even read a novel in a _**whole month**_, I used to have time to burn through at least four within two weeks, this is unacceptable! I have five unread novels gathering dust and I haven't touched them. Two of them are Tom Clancy's. I am ashamed. (*sits in corner sulkily*)

Anyway! I'm just going to stop everything outside my jobs and education for a moment, step back, and just take a breather. Thought I'd warn you all about this! And sorry for ranting, I really do try not to complain about life, but sometimes you just gotta get it out of your system.

P.S: No: this story is not finished.

Yes: I will continue to write and update when the stars align and inspiration strikes when I have access to a computer.

Maybe: will continue through season four. It's an ongoing race depending on whether I make it to the season three finale I had vaguely plotted out or if season four comes out before it's done.

That's all! Bye!

-Darkfangz13


	39. Chapter 37

A/N: I'm kind of back! Still not sure if my creative juices are going, it comes and goes sporadically, so don't be surprised if the chapters come in the same fashion. And, thanks for anyone who is _still_ following my progress. I feel like I've failed you! TT_TT

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Thirty Seven<span>

"... Turns out that we had all gathered right near where Ares made himself a home." Lestrade explained to Mycroft with his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he tried to separate Ares and Cat before either killed the other.

Ares was a monster of a dog, but he was missing a leg.

And Cat was a vicious Hell spawn.

Lestrade honestly didn't know which would survive a fight to the death and it seemed they were both rapidly spiraling toward that end.

"He was an abused, abandoned dog surrounded by strangers in a strange place. Naturally he ran the moment he had an opportunity. It was just bad luck that he stumbled on our drama when he did." Lestrade went on, at the same time trying to coax Cat off a tall cabinet as Ares waited patiently at the foot of it.

"I told you Baskerville wasn't a good idea."

There was a shrill chime of the diner's door opening.

"Yeah, customer. I still liked the wooden wind chime better." Lestrade grumbled with half a smile on his face as he walked out, deciding to let his two companions battle it out themselves.

They obviously weren't listening to him.

"And don't even get me started on that blue apron you hated. I still haven't bought a new one, yet. It's been a long time, you know! I sometimes use the one Donovan never uses, but it's got red flowers and rubber ducks printed on it. A gift from her mom, apparently. My customers tend to smile really big and laugh whenever I walk around wearing it." Lestrade complained as he walked out into the main dining area.

"Which is why I decided to buy you a new one." Mycroft said from his usual seat at the counter.

"Um..." Lestrade looked from his phone to Mycroft.

Mycroft hung up and raised an eyebrow at him. "I never did reimburse you for that atrocity." He stood up and handed Lestrade a package. "Consider it my apology."

"Apology?" Lestrade asked, confused.

Mycroft coughed and had the decency to look uncomfortable. "I was entrusted with the task of looking after your dog. He escaped. I was not pleased to hear the condition he returned in."

"Oh..." Lestrade paused to consider exactly how much Mycroft felt he was responsible. "Um... thanks." He ripped open the package and began laughing. "Oh, Mycroft... it's blue."

"At least it is not sky blue." Mycroft huffed. "It is navy."

"It's-..." Lestrade couldn't stop grinning.

**_Perfect._**

He shook his head. "Thanks, Mycroft. Hey, you want to come into the back and meet Ares? I promise, I won't let him bite you."

"Why not?" Mycroft shrugged and stood up. "I have time."

"I'll make you coffee." Lestrade offered as he led Mycroft through the kitchen into the back.

"That would be most appreciated."

"I also have a question for you." Lestrade asked, pausing.

Mycroft stopped. "I am all ears."

"Are we... still on a less-than-friendly level because of the Irene thing?" Lestrade asked gingerly.

A stony silence, Mycroft avoided Lestrade's gaze.

"I mean - yeah - I know. I did a bad thing." Lestrade grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. "And I'm sorry about it, but it's business."

"Be honest: you'd do it again." Mycroft said quietly.

"Yeah, I would." Lestrade replied frankly. "I'm not going to lie about that. It's what I do, Mycroft. You have to understand, I'm not the kind of person anymore who usually works with a suit, much less the bloody British Government."

"Don't I feel special." Mycroft droned.

Lestrade leveled him with a look. "Don't you?"

Mycroft fell silent again as he considered this.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me." Lestrade continued. "I'm telling you that this is a thing that may happen again and I'm asking you if - despite that - we could still be..." He paused, mouth pursing as he made various abortive gestures with his hands and searched for the right word to describe what exactly was going on here.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Friends?" Lestrade proposed uneasily.

Mycroft's eyebrow descended into a mildly disapproving look. "I'm not sure we're quite friends."

"Okay, friends is a no. Frenemies?"

"That's not a word."

"Reluctant allies?"

"Closer to the truth."

"Reluctant allies that sometimes happen to sleep with each other?" Lestrade reminded cheekily.

A sharp glare.

"You mentioned getting closer to the truth." Lestrade smiled a little. "Well, whatever we are, can we just... make this work, somehow?"

Mycroft exhaled deeply. "I don't see why we shouldn't." he said finally.

"Great." Lestrade grinned and fidgeted with the strings of his brand new_ navy blue_ apron. "That's good. And God save you from regaining your eyesight. How's Moriarty, by the way?"

Mycroft frowned. "Lestrade, you have the singular talent for turning a mood sour instantly."

"Sorry." Lestrade grimaced sheepishly.

"Nevermind." Mycroft shook his head. "Let's not talk about him right now."

"Okay." Lestrade shrugged and led Mycroft into the living area. "A little more lighthearted news: did I tell you Donovan moved out?"

"You did not." Mycroft replied with a private smile. "I was - however - aware of this."

"I wonder why." Lestrade smirked slyly at him.

"The mind boggles." Mycroft responded dryly.

"Cheeky." Lestrade tutted and pulled him to the side with a hand on his elbow. "Come here, you."

Mycroft let himself be guided straight up against the shorter man and smiled into the lips being pressed against his own. "Welcome back, Lestrade."

"I'm back." Lestrade hummed, then pulled back a little with an unreadable look on his face as if only now coming to the realization. "I'm back."

Mycroft huffed. "Yes you are."

Lestrade's smile grew impish. "And what are you going to do about it, Mister Holmes?"

"Alone and uninterrupted?" Mycroft smirked. "Anything can happen."

Lestrade laughed and grabbed Mycroft's hand, pulling him away.

Ares and Cat just stood and watched in apathetic silence, battle long forgotten, as they observed the behavior of mankind.

* * *

><p>"You must enjoy him being back." Mycroft blinked owlishly at the man strapped to the gurney before him in the dark, clinically sterilized cell.<p>

Moriarty grinned through bloody teeth, Mycroft's men had not been too kind to him today.

"It's nice having him around, is it?" he snickered wheezily as he tried to raise his head. "People can always tell: you walk like he's finally pulled your umbrella out of your arse."

Mycroft didn't even flicker an eyelash.

"You never react when you should. It's a tell." Moriarty carried on almost cheerfully. "You know, he's going to kill you. He's going to find that heart you hid away so deep inside and he's going to rip it out by the roots." Moriarty's yes rolled around in their sockets, accenting the 'Ts' like he was verbalizing the flick of a match. "Like a _weed_." He grinned. "I'm looking forward to that."

Mycroft blinked - once - slowly, a measured movement.

"The code, Moriarty." He demanded coldly.

Moriarty only smiled wider.


	40. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty Eight

It was four thirty in the morning when Mycroft opened his eyes.

"Shh, go back to sleep." Lestrade murmured softly as he expertly rolled out from under the covers without letting any warmth out, a skill which both men had quickly become professionals at due to either of them getting called out at odd hours.

"Where are you going this time?" Mycroft yawned.

"Airport. I'm going to miss my plane." Lestrade responded with a rueful smile. "Promise not to make any ripples."

"And don't kill any of my assets." Mycroft returned sleepily as he turned over.

"See you."

"Mhmm." Mycroft grunted, and under any other circumstances, he would be disappointed in himself for grunting and not using actual words. But it was four thirty in the morning and he had a conference at seven.

Which meant: sleep first. Vocabulary second. Every moment of rest counted.

"I'll be back in three days." Lestrade went on in a hushed whisper as he looped a tie around his neck.

Mycroft opened his eyes. "You're wearing a tie."

"Yes." Lestrade replied simply.

"Are you wearing Sherlock's tie?" Mycroft asked with a toneless disbelief.

"Sherlock doesn't wear ties."

"John made him buy one to wear with that tie pin the kidnapped banker's family gave him." Mycroft recalled.

"Sherlock didn't like it." Lestrade shrugged. "So he gave it to me. Or more - tossed it in my general direction, I think he was actually aiming for the garbage bin and I was in the way."

"You're wearing Sherlock's tie." Mycroft concluded.

"It was that, or wear yours." Lestrade smirked. "But I thought this would it a lot less scandalous. It's not good to be too obvious."

"Why don't you wear your own ties?" Mycroft asked wearily.

"I don't wear ties either."

Mycroft rubbed his eyes. "That party you went to with Anthea when we first ran into Irene Adler together, you were wearing a tie."

"It was on loan with the rest of the suit." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Why is this such a big deal?"

"You don't usually wear ties." Mycroft sighed. "Forgive me, this is a thing I tend to go to nuclear war over."

"I'll let you shop one for me when I get back." Lestrade promised as he hopped on one foot, jamming his other into a shoe.

"Why are you wearing a tie anyway?" Mycroft asked curiously. "I thought you were more of a body armor and combat boots operative."

"I'm going to a wedding." Lestrade threw out casually.

Mycroft's eyes widened a fraction and he stared at Lestrade. "_What._"

"A wedding." Lestrade repeated, pointedly not meeting Mycroft's gaze.

"You're assassinating someone at a _wedding?_" Mycroft asked, aghast. "Have some decency."

"No, I'm_ going_ to _attend_ a wedding." Lestrade raised his eyes Heavenward and sighed in exasperation. "I'm not going to be killing anybody."

Mycroft raised himself on his elbow. "That's nice."

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded uncomfortably.

"Whose?"

"Just someone's." Lestrade mumbled, edging slowly in the direction of the door.

Mycroft got the hint and let him off the hook. "Okay, see you when you come back."

"Bye." Lestrade nodded, smiling slightly in relief.

And he was gone.

Mycroft was reaching for his phone the moment he heard the door close.

"Anthea?"

_"No Sir, not at four thirty in the morning."_ Anthea groaned on the other end. _"The world had better be ending or so help me God..."_

"Who would you attend a wedding for?" Mycroft asked, ignoring his PA's unhappiness.

_"Your undertaker."_ Anthea responded flatly.

"I'm serious."

_"Very well. What's the situation?"_

"Who would you wake up at four in the morning and attend a wedding for?" Mycroft repeated. "And, you'd dress up nicely."

_"Are you implying-..."_ there was a sharp undertone to Anthea's voice.

Mycroft quickly backtracked. "No! Not you-...! Alright, if you were Lestrade."

_"Oh."_

"He was wearing a tie."

**_"Oh."_**

"He said he's on his way to the airport."

_"He probably isn't."_

"I know."

Anthea was silent for a long moment._ "I think - Sir - you'd have better understanding if you considered who **you** would attend a wedding for."_

"I don't do weddings." Mycroft replied matter-of-factly.

_"And Lestrade does?"_ Anthea questioned pointedly.

"Ah."

_"Think about it, Sir."_ Anthea sighed.

Mycroft smiled a little. "Is this your way of saying 'come to your own conclusions, it's too early for this'?"

_"Yes, but with a little more colour in the wording."_ Anthea replied sweetly.

"I'll let you get back to bed."

_"Grateful."_

Then, a rare thing occurred. Anthea hung up on Mycroft first.

Mycroft laid flat on his back and closed his eyes, mentally running through the list of people he knew well enough to perhaps garner a wedding invitation.

He quickly dismissed professional friends that he vowed never to see outside of work, quickly followed by the professional not-so-friendly associates, and those of considerable lower importance.

He narrowed down the list to those he would be professionally obligated to attend for, and those he would attend for less than professional reasons.

He decided to dismiss professional obligation. He was sure Lestrade wouldn't dig out a tie for that. He's seen the man stare down the Prime Minister in khaki shorts and camping sandals.

It had been an interesting day.

That left four names on his list.

Sherlock Holmes. His brother. He was caught between professional and personal obligation as for reason he would be in attendance. Professional because he was known to Sherlock's acquaintances as the brother of Sherlock Holmes: his closest kin, it was only proper that he be in attendance. And personal because, despite their differences, Sherlock Holmes _was_ his little brother.

The second was Anthea. His loyal aide. His best friend. What kind of man was he if he relied so heavily on her and did not extend the same courtesy? And he was curious as to what kind of person Anthea would marry.

The third was Mycroft Holmes. Himself. It would - after all - be awfully rude not to attend his own wedding.

And the fourth... The fourth would have to be the person walking down the aisle with him.

"Family." Mycroft nodded decisively to himself. "It's got to be family, friend... or partner."

Then, he fell silent as he reluctantly made peace with the fact that he may never know which it was. There were just some things that he would never know about Lestrade.

And that was a mildly upsetting thought.

He shook his head and rolled over determinedly.

He had an two hours more to sleep and he was going to get them. Lestrade's antics would not stop him.

He shut his eyes again.


	41. Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty Nine

It was well past midnight when the back door to the Strangers Cafe clicked open and Lestrade slipped inside.

"Shh. Hello, hello." Lestrade smiled warmly when Ares padded up to greet him once he was convinced Lestrade was not an intruder.

He ran a hand through the warm scruff of the dog's neck. "Did you eat? Hungry? Lets go get something to eat, shall we?"

He ascended and dropped his duffel bag at the top of the stairs on the second floor, that was when he noticed the faint glimmer of light sliding out from under his bedroom door.

He froze, then placed a calming hand on Ares's muzzle as he crept forward silently, sliding his gun out of his waistband.

He reached out gingerly, nudging the door open a crack.

"Please don't shoot me." Mycroft said in the driest tone as he straightened up from where he was leaning over Lestrade's nightstand, poring over a laptop screen.

Lestrade lowered his gun and stepped into the room with a tired sigh. "Mycroft, what are you doing here?"

Mycroft glanced once to his laptop, back to Lestrade, and then to Ares who had curled himself around Lestrade's legs. "He didn't tear my face off so I assumed I was welcome."

"Ares doesn't get to decide who I decide to welcome into my flat in my absence." Lestrade grumbled.

Ares growled, Lestrade glared down at him sternly, the dog let out a low whine.

Lestrade sighed again. "Come on, Ares. Let's eat."

"I fed him." Mycroft informed him.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Which would explain why Ares likes you, did you bribe him with food?"

"It was a simple task." Mycroft smiled.

"Right." Lestrade nodded slowly. "Well, I'm going to eat. I haven't eaten."

"I'm sure you don't need my permission to acquire food in your own home." Mycroft reminded.

Lestrade nodded again. There was a brief silence during which Lestrade should have gone and ate - as he said he would - but he did not.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again, inwardly debating whether he should walk over and see what Mycroft was working on, or whether he should let Mycroft take the lead on that point.

A sheepish look came over Mycroft's face. "Anthea threw me out of the office."

"So you're hiding out here?" Lestrade almost laughed, imagining the reactions of various World Powers if they knew Mycroft Holmes's secret lair-away-from-office was a small flat on top of a diner in downtown Central London.

"You have better equipment." Mycroft shrugged. "I needed to work within secure parameters immediately."

"Which implies a situation which you couldn't ignore, but was not so much an immediate threat to Britain or Anthea." Lestrade hummed. "So, personal problems?"

"Don't try to deduce me, Lestrade, I have Sherlock as a brother." Mycroft groaned, rubbing his hand down his face.

"And Anthea as a PA." Lestrade remarked with a sly smile as he fished out his phone to text the woman in question.

If anybody knew anything that someone was keeping secret, it was Anthea.

"Put that phone away." Mycroft sighed. "It's Moriarty."

Lestrade stepped closer to Mycroft and tossed his phone onto the bed. "What's bothering you about Moriarty? I thought you had him where you wanted him: gone to the world."

"He's not talking." Mycroft frowned at his laptop.

"Maybe you're not asking the right questions." Lestrade returned snidely. "He's sensitive like that. He's the kind of person who would ask for the secret password for access to his brain."

"It's hardly a laughing matter. National Security may be at stake." Mycroft admonished.

"Sorry." Lestrade shrugged. "Okay, so start with what you know." he advised.

"Do you think I haven't?" Mycroft snapped. "I'm hardly an amateur at these games."

"Okay." Lestrade shuffled around Mycroft and plopped himself on his bed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and biting down on one. "So, fill me in."

Mycroft looked at him.

"What did he tell you?" Lestrade encouraged, patting himself down for a lighter.

"He said that you'd break my heart." Mycroft said flatly.

Lestrade paused. "And do you believe him?" he asked quietly, pulling the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and stuffing it back into the pack.

Mycroft considered this for a moment. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Lestrade blinked. "I think that's one of the most romantic things anybody has ever said to me." he said.

"You are a twisted individual." Mycroft huffed almost before Lestrade had even finished speaking.

"No - seriously though - I'm touched." Lestrade grinned. "Not many people get to break the heart of Mycroft Holmes."

"_Nobody_ breaks the heart of Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft corrected him firmly. "And I'll thank you not to break that record."

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, then he blinked slowly, the smile bled out of his features at an even slower pace.

"Ah." he said at length.

Mycroft inclined his head, a question in his expression.

Lestrade chuckled slowly.

"What is it now?" Mycroft asked, growing annoyed.

Lestrade shook his head. "I get it." he smiled ruefully. "You're trying to break my heart first. A preemptive strike. You really _do_ believe him, don't you?"

Mycroft was silent.

"Alright, correction: that's one of the most romantic things anybody as _never_ said to me." Lestrade laughed quietly, a little bitter. "It was a good try, but leave the breaking of hearts to me next time. You're rubbish at it."

"I'm no honeypot." Mycroft huffed empirically. "And I really did need a hideaway. I did not expect you to return so soon."

"Which explains the clumsy attempt at pretending this was all planned." Lestrade snickered.

"It was not clumsy." Mycroft grunted.

"It was a_ little_ clumsy." Lestrade did a one-shouldered shrug and grimaced. Then he smiled. "But not bad."

"I almost got you." Mycroft said.

"You almost got me." Lestrade said seriously.

Their gazes met and held for a moment in which Mycroft realized that perhaps he wasn't talking about what they were talking about at all.

Then, Lestrade plastered on a smile. "_Almost_." He struggled to get back to his feet. "Anyway! First, I'm going to eat. Then, I'm going to shower."

"And then?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade leaned in, grinning widely. "We should commemorate our non-loyalties by having angry sex." he said right next to Mycroft's ear.

"You are a twisted individual." Mycroft repeated beratingly before Lestrade finished his sentence.

"You can be gone before I get back." Lestrade remarked as he walked out.

But both knew Mycroft was staying exactly where he was.


	42. Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

Mycroft woke up the next morning with a wet face and a sour disposition.

"Lestrade, get your dog off the bed." he grated out, frozen out of both shock and disgust.

Lestrade poked his head into the room and made an apologetic little noise. "Sorry." He grabbed Ares firmly by the collar and guided him down to the floor. "Bad dog, Ares! You know the rules."

When Mycroft felt it was again safe to move, he sat up and gingerly wiped his face. "You shouldn't pick up strays. This is what happens when you do." he grunted.

Lestrade just laughed and walked back out, presumably to wash up. "Good morning to you, too." he called over his shoulder as he went.

Mycroft sighed and staggered out of bed, wrapping a robe around himself as he followed Lestrade into the bathroom to wash dog slobber off himself.

Lestrade was already brushing his teeth when he got there.

"Move." Mycroft mumbled as he nudged Lestrade aside sleepily.

"Bossy." Lestrade managed around his mouthful of toothpaste.

"I'll show you bossy..." Mycroft grumbled before splashing water on his face.

Lestrade nudged him right back using his whole body. Mycroft stumbled away from the sink sopping wet and indignant. Lestrade rinsed his mouth out and stood smirking provocatively at him as if daring him to do something about it.

Mycroft just glared flatly at him. "You are a child."

Lestrade mimed taking a blow to the chest. "Unhappy." he said mournfully. "Mycroft, your words make me unhappy."

"Go away and let the grown ups be." Mycroft flapped his wet hand dismissively at him, flicking water. "Shoo."

Lestrade flinched under the slight spray then drooped his shoulders, rolling his eyes dramatically. "God! Adults are so-... _urgh!_" he exclaimed like a pubescent teenager and flounced out of the bathroom.

Mycroft just shook his head with a slight smile and continued washing up.

Ten minutes later, he dressed and made himself perfectly presentable before making his way downstairs where he assumed Lestrade would be, if the aromatic smell of food was anything to go by.

Anthea was sitting at the counter in the next seat to Mycroft's reserved stool with her arms crossed on the wooden surface watching Lestrade cook and cooing something about 'sexy, _sexy_ spinach'.

"Good morning." Mycroft announced his presence by saying, and further announced his opinion on the situation by adding, "Don't say anything, I don't want to know."

Anthea just shrugged while Lestrade struggled to contain his snickers and Mycroft sat down.

Breakfast was made up of perfect golden pancakes drizzled in caramel and sprinkled with strawberries served with coffee.

Anthea made an appreciative noise at the first bite. "Oh my God. Lestrade, marry me. Now."

"No. I'll make you fat." Lestrade grinned brightly at her approval.

"He will." Mycroft nodded sagely.

"You will." Anthea agreed as she stabbed another piece of pancake and hoisted it into her mouth.

There was a tap on the diner door and Mrs. Hathaway poked her head inside. "Yoohoo! Hello, lovelies."

"Hello, Mrs. Hathaway." The three inside greeted simultaneously.

"Come in, come in." Lestrade urged her warmly. "Pancakes of the gods this morning."

Anthea set up another plate at the counter for Mrs. Hathaway and plopped a pancake on it.

"How are you Mrs. Hathaway?" Mycroft asked politely. "It's been too long."

"It's barely been three days." Mrs. Hathaway responded with a smile.

"What happened three days ago?" Anthea whispered to Lestrade.

"Mycroft broke into my flat. I should've known Mrs. Hathaway would have caught him." Lestrade smirked back, raising his eyebrow at Mycroft.

"Hush." Mycroft leveled him a look. "I did not break and enter, Mrs. Hathaway let me in."

"She-..." Lestrade cut himself off, pressed his eyes shut, and breathed deeply through his nose. "First Ares, now Mrs. Hathaway. Mycroft, why is everybody letting you into my flat?" he asked when he was calm.

Mrs. Hathaway simply sipped the tea Lestrade made for her and surreptitiously glanced at the two boys with a knowing look. "I thought that's why you left a spare key with me." she remarked.

Anthea burst out into giggles.

"Mrs. Hathaway..." Lestrade groaned. "We're not..."

"Oh, save talk of the nighttime business for when I'm not eating, Dear." Mrs. Hathaway tutted unconcernedly.

Mycroft nearly spewed his drink. "Mrs. Hathaway!" he exclaimed.

The little old lady flapped a hand at him. "I was in my prime when the boys came back from the war, it's a little late for me to be prudish about it." she giggled.

"And you never left your prime state." Lestrade said quickly. "So please - Mrs. Hathaway - stop talking about sex." he said with the utmost sobriety.

"You're not helping!" Mycroft hissed at him, aghast.

Anthea just watched them from a third person's point of view and laughed.

"Anyway." Mrs. Hathaway said, changing the subject. "Have you seen the paper? It's your brother."

She handed the paper over to Lestrade as Mycroft scoffed. "Ah yes, 'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'."

Lestrade turned the page and raised an eyebrow. "Do you always read the newspaper the day before it gets printed?"

"I can hardly be the last person to hear about things." Mycroft huffed.

"You're never not the first." Lestrade shot back pointedly.

"Lestrade, we've talked about the double negatives." Mycroft murmured.

Sarcasm reared its head. "You're never not, _not_ the last."

Mycroft's stare could've withered rainforests.

Lestrade blinked his eyes innocently and smiled.

Anthea's phone buzzed with a text and the PA's eyebrows furrowed minutely.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked curiously.

Anthea had a curious look in her eye, herself. She looked up at the rest of them.

"Moriarty's just broke into the Tower of London."

There was a brief, stunned silence.

Then, Lestrade swallowed his bite of pancake. "Well, there's tomorrow's front line."

Then, Mycroft's phone buzzed. "My God... the Bank of England." The government agent gasped.

The diner was suddenly alive with the commotion of three separate phones ringing and buzzing.

"Pentonville Prison." Lestrade announced grimly as he consulted his phone.

Mycroft opened his mouth to inquire how the news of Pentonville Prison being compromised reached Lestrade before either himself or Anthea.

Then, he stopped himself realizing that there were more pressing matters at hand. And even if there wasn't, he wanted to keep plausible deniability.

The three intelligence agents stood simultaneously and, sharing communicative looks, separated. Mycroft and Anthea stalked out of the diner to the car that was just arriving, and Lestrade up to his flat to gear up.

Mrs. Hathaway continued serenely sipping tea.

"I'll close up, Dears. Have a good day." she called after them cheerily.


	43. Chapter 41

Chapter Forty One

Mycroft strode with quick, even paces down a thickly carpeted hall within the Bank of England leading to a large office packed with several bankers hurrying around the multiple computers like headless chickens.

Mycroft lifted his umbrella and rapped a nearby desk sharply.

The whole room screeched to a halt and everyone stared in frazzled shock.

"Gentlemen, ladies." Mycroft greeted formally. "Let's hear the situation."

* * *

><p>"Stay alert." Anthea snapped into a radio from the backseat of one of many vehicles surrounding the Tower of London. "Moriarty wouldn't allow himself to be caught without meaning to."<p>

She watched with a hawk-like gaze as Moriarty was escorted out of the Tower by two policemen followed closely by Donovan and Dimmock.

"What are you planning?" she wondered aloud.

* * *

><p>"Good to see you again, Sir." Stanley Hopkins grinned nervously when Lestrade marched in decked in riot control gear.<p>

"Stan, how are you?" Lestrade nodded back, shifting his helmet for a more comfortable fit and tightened the clip under his chin.

"I need to piss." Stan admitted with a strained smile. "A bit late for it, I suppose."

"Sooner we get this done, the sooner you can go." Lestrade snorted as he marched on by.

Stan trailed after him. "You're not nervous at all, are you?"

Lestrade paused and side-eyed him. "Are you asking, or telling?" Stan just huffed and smiled helplessly. "Let's go." Lestrade smiled back and flipped the visor of his helmet down.

"Right behind you, Sir."

"Gentlemen." A large, muscular man barked as the team mobilized smartly. "Hope you're not too squeamish, and if you are, well tough 'cause you're coming anyway."

Lestrade smiled serenely as the others shifted nervously. "I like him."

"Of course you would, Sir." Stan murmured. "He's Sergeant Jones. Mister Holmes reportedly handpicked him for his team and personally flew him out of Baghdad. He was the training officer for nearly everyone here today."

"And I hope you weren't expecting a pep talk because everyone knows I'm shite at it." Jones continued with a wry smirk. "I assume you are all updated on the situation. We're infiltrating through the north gate, Gregson, take point." And without further ado, the officer in charge turned and marched off, another soldier, presumably Gregson, took off in the same direction to lead.

"Hopkins, on my twenty." Gregson roared in perhaps an even louder voice than Jones.

Stan scurried off and the rest of them fell into formation.

Lestrade slid in toward the rear and ran in a half-crouch, shoulders up against his ears, keeping his eyes on the back of the man in front of him.

And suddenly, the man before him disappeared.

Lestrade didn't need a warning shout to start moving. "Sniper!" he warned the two men taking up the rear as he ducked for cover.

The downed man was still moving, the bullet having been stopped by his body armor. He was lying on his side half crawling, half rolling for safety.

The sniper took another potshot and kicked up debris inches from the man's left shoulder.

Lestrade lifted his gun and fired twice, not really knowing where he should be aiming, but a shift in the shadows - probably a flinch at the gunfire - betrayed the sniper's position.

Which meant: amateur marksman. The first lesson taught to most snipers was to take the upper ground and remain hidden in order to keep it. Lestrade recalled a time during his training as a field agent where he was made to take a position and remain perfectly still as his training officer shot blanks at him in order to acclimatize him to the noise and - in the case of the odd rubber bullet - close hits.

Lestrade fired off several more rounds and the sniper abandoned his position in favor of retreat. A round from Jones took the fleeing prisoner down as he tried to run.

One of the other soldiers grabbed his injured friend and dragged him into an isolated room for a brief look-over.

The man was relatively unharmed, if bruised, and quickly returned to position.

"Hostages." Gregson grunted.

"How many?" Stan asked.

"From the report: ten." Gregson replied grimly. The reports were all educated guesses based on the schedule and number of personnel involved as most of the surveillance cameras had been trashed within ten minutes of the prisoners taking scene.

There was no telling whether there were more hostages, or how many of them were left.

Lestrade bit his lip. "They're not idiots, they'll probably be in the control center, they'll want eyes on the prison and it's the most secure."

"That's probably where they'll make their last stand." Jones agreed grimly. "Alright, here's what we'll do-..."

Then, he stopped himself and looked up.

Everybody else followed his line of sight.

"Well." Lestrade said frankly as he peered at the security camera. "There's that."

The camera he was considering fizzled and crumpled under the force of a speeding bullet.

"Well, there it ain't anymore." Jones griped. "So that's the situation, gentlemen. If we go straight in, they'll see us coming."

"What if we didn't go straight in, Sir?" Stan proposed, staring thoughtfully straight above his head.

The team looked at the air vent, and then around at each other.

"Thanks for volunteering us, Stan." Lestrade grumbled quietly, quickly coming to the realization that one would have to be small to average size in order to move freely without sacrificing protection and equipment.

That being said, none of the other men on the team were exactly pencil-pushers. They looked more like golems carved out of mountainous, raging volcanoes.

Stan grimaced. "Yeah."

"We'll go play decoy." Jones told them and led the other men further down the hall.

"Come on, I'll give you a lift." Lestrade sighed and braced his back against the wall with his hands clasped, fingers interlocking in front of him. "Let's just get this over with."

Stan placed one boot into Lestrade's hands and hoisted himself up. Moments later, the air vent's cover dropped with a clang and Stan's weight disappeared.

"Come on." Stan extended his arm down for Lestrade to pull himself up.

Once both were in the vent, they paused to brace themselves for the oncoming battle.

"You ready?" Lestrade asked Stan.

"I hope so." Stan responded determinedly.

In the hall below them, shots rang out.

It was now, or never.


	44. Chapter 42

Chapter Forty Two

"One day, we'll laugh about this." Lestrade grumbled aloud as he scrubbed his wet hair under his running showerhead. "It'll be a_ great_ story to tell my grandkids, one day. But today? Let's not talk about it."

Mycroft leaned into the doorjamb of Lestrade's bathroom, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "Is that... foam in your hair?"

"Fire extinguisher." Lestrade hissed before moving his head back under the shower and continued scrubbing his head. "Don't ask."

"Why?" Mycroft asked anyway, earning himself a sideways glare.

"There was-..." Lestrade straightened and worked his jaw, churning out words. "There was a man on fire, okay? _Drop it._"

Mycroft directed his gaze Heavenward before sighing. "I'm sure I'll read it in the report."

"Hm." Lestrade grunted and scrubbed the remaining bits of foam out of his silver hair.

"Shouldn't you have cleaned up over there?" Mycroft asked. "And how did it get in your hair? You should've been wearing a helmet."

Lestrade exhaled heavily. "I. Said. Don't. Ask."

Mycroft nodded. "I'll read it in the report." he repeated, fighting down a smile.

Lestrade sent him a long-suffering look. "I'm sure you will."

"So, did you drive back here covered in flame repellant?" Mycroft asked curiously. "Can't have been good on the car seats."

"Oh don't be so squeamish, I'll clean it up." Lestrade huffed.

"I'll thank you to do a fine job of it since I drive, sometimes." Mycroft reminded him with a saccharine smile.

Lestrade squirmed a bit at the sugar-coated rebuke. "The lads tend to get a bit... buddy-buddy in the locker room." he admitted.

"And what's wrong with a little camaraderie after a battle?" Mycroft questioned. "I hear it is an accepted ritual of brothers-in-arms."

Lestrade just looked at him for a long moment.

"You don't want to become comrades." Mycroft remarked.

Lestrade shrugged.

"No... it's not that." Mycroft inclined his head and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "It isn't... right? Not proper?" he felt out his words even as he spoke them.

"It's not a good idea." Lestrade concluded firmly.

"You don't want to make attachments to people you might have to - one day - kill." Mycroft stated.

"And maybe one day they'll have to kill me." Lestrade looked mildly annoyed as he stepped carefully out of the shower and grabbed a towel. "Mycroft, are you deliberately trying to push me to distract you with my naked body?" he berated with a tinge of humor in his voice.

Mycroft let out a startled laugh. "No."

Lestrade wrapped his towel around his waist as he sauntered toward Mycorft and leaned into his personal space. "Then get off the subject." he whispered and continued on his way to his bedroom.

Mycroft huffed out a breath and followed him. "Even if I was, could you really blame me?"

"Nope." Lestrade grinned suggestively at himself in the mirror before looking for something to put on. "Anyway, how was the Bank?"

"Good, considering." Mycroft sighed. "It clearly doesn't look good, having being compromised in the first place. But we'll soldier on."

"We always do." Lestrade agreed, finally finding a semi-clean shirt and pulling it on. "I hear the police picked up Moriarty?"

"Yes." Mycroft nodded, considering Lestrade's shirt for a moment before turning and plucking out a pair of jeans from one of the drawers. "I contemplated having Anthea picking him up but we'd only find ourselves in the exact same impasse we've been stuck in since Baskerville. I decided to let the fish swim, see what Moriarty's got planned out."

"Is that wise?" Lestrade asked with a troubled expression. "I mean, he did break into three of the most high-level security facilities in London. he could've only trumped it by simultaneously trying to kidnap The Queen." He raised a hand expectantly, palm directed at Mycroft.

Mycroft tossed the jeans at him. "First of all: put on some goddamn underpants. Second: don't talk about Her without them on, you're worse than my brother."

"Today feels like a day to go commando." Lestrade shrugged as he shuffled into the jeans. "And if Sherlock had his way - admit it - everyday would be commando day."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Where is Sherlock, anyway?" Lestrade questioned. "I'd have thought he'd be all over this case, Moriarty being involved and all."

"He's currently in the Tower of London." Mycroft told him. "Inspector Dimmock called him in. Apparently, at Moriarty's behest."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Popular, isn't he?"

"What is Moriarty planning?" Mycroft asked suddenly. "And don't tell me you don't know, because we both know that'll be a lie."

"We've talked about this." Lestrade sighed. "I don't ask you about your work, and you don't ask about mine."

"This is my brother's safety that could be on the line." Mycroft snapped. "It's not like I actively work to help those who threaten people close to you."

"And how would you know that?" Lestrade retorted, eyes flaring momentarily. He advanced toward Mycroft with slow, predatory steps. "How the _Hell_ would you know?"

"How_ could_ I know?" Mycroft growled, unwilling to back down. "You've never told me."

"Have you tried to investigate?" Lestrade asked back pointedly. "Have you even bothered to stop and wonder?"

That got Mycroft to stiffen up.

"Or is it easier for you not to consider whether anybody would miss me if you had to pull the trigger?" Lestrade tilted his head. "Is it difficult for you to imagine that I have a _whole life_ that you have no part in?" he sneered.

"You know, you try to get so personal when you feel your privacy threatened." Mycroft remarked evenly, but there was a slight stirring in the darks of his eyes.

Lestrade knew him well enough to tell. "Poor Mycroft. You know, I think you're just afraid that it's not me that no one will miss. It's _you._"

Mycroft's eyes fluttered in an aborted blink. "Let me remind you that you are trying to throw vitriol at the Iceman."

"I'm afraid I'm not." Lestrade said quietly. "I'm throwing vitriol at a_ child_."

There was silence for a prolonged moment.

Mycroft turned his head a little. "You worked with your brother for the MI5 before a joint mission with the CIA killed him in action. Yet, judging by the many times you have relied on the CIA for information, you still have strong ties to them. I know there's a deeper story there that the Secret Service doesn't know about." he said in a low tone. "I_ will_ pull that thread if I have to."

"You could." Lestrade nodded solemnly. "But you won't like what you'll find on the other end. I tend to be perceived as an ugly smear on other people's shiny resumes. And whatever you _do_ find there won't be enough to protect your little brother."

"His name is _Sherlock_." Mycroft thundered back. "If you are seriously considering marking him down as collateral damage as a byproduct of your 'business' you should at least have the decency not to dehumanize him. He is not 'my brother' he is not 'the famous private detective', you've known him for years. He is Sherlock, and - like it or not - he is your friend."

"_And he is your brother!_" Lestrade snarled. "He's also your responsibility, so don't push the task of keeping him safe onto me just because I've looked after him this far. That's not on me. _You're_ your brother's keeper - Mycroft - ..._you_."

Then, he stepped past Mycroft and moved for the open door.

"What do you suggest I do?" Mycroft asked him, turning to follow his progress across the room with his eyes.

Lestrade stopped in the doorway and turned. "Ignore Moriarty. Lock him up. Put Sherlock on the first flight out of England. And wait for it all to blow over."

"You know it won't happen." Mycroft sighed. "You know Sherlock will kick and claw to get this case."

"Well that's your problem isn't it?" Lestrade shrugged apathetically and turned his back to leave. "But you know what? It's Sherlock choice to get involved at his own peril. If he chooses to pursue this case, anyway, then that's his decision."

Mycroft watched the door swing shut behind Lestrade until the wood cut him off from sight.

He gritted his teeth and stared at his feet, mind racing.


	45. Chapter 43

Chapter Forty Three

A week had passed since Moriarty's attempt to steal the Crown Jewels.

A week since Mycroft failed in convincing Sherlock not to get involved.

A week since the officially full blown Metropolitan police investigation of James Moriarty.

A week since Mycroft had last spoken with Lestrade.

Or seen him.

Or heard from him.

Mycroft was beginning to wonder if he was actually dead.

But since this was Lestrade, he doubted so. If Sherlock was stubborn to out-live God to have the last word, Lestrade would be the one popping out from under a rock in the aftermath to see which was the last standing and shower the winner with confetti.

He had the uncomfortable ability to just _be there_ even in situations he was not actively involved in. And never around when he actually was.

There were more than a hundred CCTVs in Central London alone, it was almost insulting that Lestrade never let himself be caught by a single one.

"You did it again, didn't you?" Anthea huffed one day in the office.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows at her.

"You chased him away." Anthea said accusingly.

"No. Upon confrontation, he ran away." Mycroft disagreed irritably. "There is a difference."

"Just like the time with Irene Adler." Anthea reminded him. "You know what the problem with you is?"

"No, do tell." Mycroft sighed.

"Every time." Anthea berated angrily. "Every single time, you have the option of trusting him, or doubting him, you never choose to trust."

"He's never proven than I can." Mycroft retorted.

"Maybe he's waiting for you to take a leap of faith." Anthea said.

"Why should I?" Mycroft responded darkly. "I'll only fall."

"If there's something to be done about Moriarty, he'll do it. He just can't show that he is." Anthea frowned. "That's the downside of being a double-agent."

"Or, he's just moving to serve his own means. We'll never know until it's too late and we can't take that risk." Mycroft responded rationally. "This is also a downside of him being a double-agent."

Anthea shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair, exasperated. "Here you two are taking turns: each asking the other to trust him in impossible situations, both knowing the other will not. I don't know whether it's because both of you want to remain at odds, or because if anybody can take that leap, it's you two."

"I'm sorry, Anthea, but he will always be disappointed." Mycroft frowned.

"Disappointment implies expectations." Anthea replied primly, eyebrow raised.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Call Stanley Hopkins." he ordered.

Anthea looked at him, puzzled.

"Just do it."

* * *

><p>"I never knew Lestrade had a second flat." Anthea grumbled, a little put out at being the only one not knowing.<p>

"He made me promise not to tell." Stan said sheepishly.

"And you actually didn't tell?" Anthea looked at him aghast. "How did you get hired?"

"My thoughts exactly." Mycroft hummed. "Turns out Stan was hired for his expertise in the field as a combat tactician, not for infiltration and espionage. I have actually taken time to investigate this."

"I'm right here, Sir." Stan mumbled miserably.

"I am aware." Mycroft said breezily and let himself in to Lestrade's safehouse.

"And what are we doing here?" Anthea asked.

"Waiting." Mycroft eyed the decor with a slight distaste as he moved into the sitting room with Anthea and Stan on his heels. "Maybe I should bulldoze this flat as well."

Anthea felt a slight movement of air behind her and she spun around despite not hearing anything, gun raised, instinct spurring her actions.

Lestrade caught her by the wrist and wrenched it sideways, twisting the gun from her grip.

Stan turned then and was quickly subdued with a swift kick to the ribs, doubling him over.

Anthea jabbed a pressure point on Lestrade's forearm with two fingers of her free hand and Lestrade's grip went momentarily slack. The PA took that opportunity to grab Lestrade's neck and slam his head against the wall with great prejudice.

Unfortunately, her angle was all wrong and the blow was taken mostly by Lestrade's raised shoulders, glancing only slightly off his head. The freelance agent's arm lashed out at her but the faster woman danced out of reach, the tips of Lestrade's fingers just brushing the curls of her hair before closing around thin air.

Stan rushed to her aid and tackled Lestrade around the waist, knocking the air out of him.

Lestrade coughed out once, sucked in a breath and pistoned his knee up into Stan's chest before headbutting him brutally straight in the nose.

Then, he ducked and weaved around Stan, doing a barrel roll, and came up in a kneeling position holding Anthea's gun leveled straight at the lady.

"If you three are quite finished pummeling each other." Mycroft raised his voice sharply. The three combatants froze. "Lestrade, I have taken the liberty to de-wire your flat earlier."

There was a moment's silence as Lestrade chewed on his next words, gun still aimed between Anthea's eyes.

"Even the one behind the-..." Lestrade cocked his head in the direction of the sitting room door.

"-...Vase on the shoe shelf. Yes."

Another beat.

Lestrade stood up and angled his gun downward toward the floor. Anthea breathed a little easier, although God forbid her face showed this. "Well, it would've been helpful if you told me that earlier." Lestrade admonished.

"I would have, if given half the chance." Mycroft responded archly.

"I'm sorry, what?" Stan came around, head tilted back, pinching his bloody nose. "_What?_"

"God, sorry about that!" Lestrade grimaced and sidled over to him, guiding him to the sitting room sofa. "I'll get you a towel."

"Thanks." Stan groaned, pressing his eyes shut.

Anthea rounded in on Mycroft with a stormy expression on her face. She tilted her head with an angry look.

Mycroft grimaced back.

Anthea just rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Whatever. I give up on you two, you are absolute filth."

"And just what sort of language is that?" Lestrade reprimanded with a grin. "He's your boss."

"And my boss is impossible." Anthea grunted.

Lestrade looked at Mycroft and pointed at Anthea. "Shouldn't you be getting mad, or something?" He handed Stan a clean towel and an icepack.

"If you would like to try." Mycroft tilted his head with an intrigued look. "You may be my guest."

Anthea raised a challenging eyebrow at Lestrade.

"Maybe next time."


	46. Chapter 44

Chapter Forty Four

"Explain." Anthea snapped. "Now."

"Well, I'm working for Moriarty, obviously." Lestrade said, massaging his bruised shoulder while shrugging the other. "I just also happen to be working for Mycroft."

"And the CIA." Stan groaned.

"And MI5." Mycroft chimed in.

"And... your other employers, I am aware." Anthea crossed her arms. "You ran away after Moriarty's capture."

"I had to bus Moran around." Lestrade grimaced.

"Moran?" Stan asked, confused.

"Moran, as in, Sebastian Moran?" Anthea frowned. "He was the sniper who worked with Moriarty, wasn't he? I thought we had him when we brought Moriarty in for... interrogation."

"We did have him." Mycroft grunted wryly with a long-suffering look at Lestrade. "Until _someone_ broke him out of Pentonvile Prison."

"Hey now..." Lestrade held up his hands. "He was already out, I was just there to make sure he didn't get himself killed."

"The reports did say he _was_ killed during the prison riot." Mycroft sniffed. "He was reportedly_ burned_ to death."

Lestrade coughed and looked away.

"I expect to hear that story about how you got flame repellant in your hair, Lestrade." Mycroft pressed. "And a full explanation of who exactly is it that is lying charred on some poor pathologist's table."

"Some other time." Lestrade promised. "Anyway, I got Moran set up. Moriarty only told me to get him the guns he needed and Moran would give me further instructions. It seems he's waiting on a signal from Moriarty. Moriarty trusts me just as much as you do."

"You wound me." Mycroft said flatly, but did not deny this. He turned to Anthea and Stan. "I was afraid that we would have a repeat of Irene Adler. Seeing as neither of us were prepared for this sort of situation, we agreed to make adjustments, so I arranged for this flat to be made into a makeshift HQ."

"You. Stop doing this." Lestrade glowered, crossing his arms. "Stop rearranging my stuff."

"You got ever so upset when I bulldozed your diner and let you do it yourself." Mycroft shrugged apathetically. "Seeing as you were otherwise occupied, I decided to do it for you."

"I'm going to kill you." Lestrade declared flatly.

"Probably." Mycroft smiled.

"Slowly. And painfully." Lestrade went on, voice low. "But mostly slow."

"No doubt."

Stan looked from Lestrade to Mycroft, and back, evaluating the situation. "I don't know if this is a good thing. Or a bad thing happening." he said.

"_Nobody_ knows that." Anthea groaned.

"Anyway, if you need to speak directly with Lestrade, I suggest we use here as a point of contact." Mycroft said, returning to the matters at hand. "I suppose Moriarty will be keeping close tabs on you?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Well, Moran more likely. But I know how to catch him sleeping. I could spare five minutes if it's urgent."

"Won't they become suspicious if you keep disappearing?" Stan asked.

"Not really. I don't really work for Moriarty." Lestrade shrugged. "As it is, I'm on loan. Moriarty understands that."

"It's amazing how you can work for so many people and not have the same number of enemies." Mycroft marveled.

"It's my charming good looks. Lets me get away with everything." Lestrade drawled. "People only hire me if they need me, they have a hole that needs filling, I'm their man. Details of their endeavors may leak every once in a while, but as long as they don't trust me with anything more than grunt work, they're fine with it. It's stated in the 'terms and conditions' section of my resume."

"And why haven't I seen this resume?" Mycroft asked, appalled. "I'm sure I would have a thing or two to complain about."

"Excuse you, no you wouldn't." Lestrade sniffed indignantly. "I'm an excellent employee. Model example, I dare say."

"You show up for work sporadically and unannounced, without explanation." Mycroft reprimanded. "Explain to me how that can be considered 'model behavior'."

"I don't bother wasting your time if I have nothing productive to show for it." Lestrade shrugged frankly.

Mycroft frowned at him. "This is unacceptable, Lestrade." he said. "This is not an argument you are supposed to win."

Lestrade burst out laughing and bowed graciously.

"See?" Anthea said to Stan, waving her hand elegantly at them. "Nobody understands this mating dance."

* * *

><p>"I gotta go back and babysit Moran." Lestrade sighed later that night as he walked out of the newly appointed HQ. "Hear from you if something happens?"<p>

"Or, I will be hearing from you." Mycroft reminded as he trailed after him.

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded. "Okay so..."

"Back to being enemies?" Mycroft smiled a little.

"Guess so." Lestrade grinned back. "See you, Mister Holmes."

"And I will see you very soon, Mister Lestrade." Mycroft returned.

Lestrade had only walked five paces when his phone rang and he swiveled around, reading a text.

He walked right back up to Mycroft. "Sorry, can I just...?"

He reached out and made gestures with his hand, pointing vaguely at Mycroft's pocket, one-handedly keying in a text with his other.

Mycroft rolled his eyes upward and reached his own hand into the pocket of his waistcoat. "It must say something about us that we put up with these things with only minor complaint." His hand reappeared with a metallic shine pinched between his fingertips. "Next time, if you bother with placing a tracker on me, don't ask for it back at your own convenience."

"Thought you would be thankful I'm taking it back." Lestrade frowned.

"And what if I suddenly disappear?" Mycroft scoffed disapprovingly. "I assure you, if I fall off the grid, it will not be of my own volition."

"Right, right." Lestrade nodded soberly. "What would we do if the British Government suddenly popped off? You know, you're the one man who would feel safer if someone was hiding trackers on him."

"Who is the tracker for, anyway?" Mycroft asked him, ignoring Lestrade's last remark.

"I said I was babysitting Moran." Lestrade replied wryly. "The man's got two functioning modes. One is sitting very still, and probably sleeping. This is good for his career as a sniper. The second is inter-dimensional cat. Sort of like Cat when she gets leery, but human sized. Also, I just got a message from one of my people saying that he was seen rigging the rooms of the jury charged with Moriarty's case. Which means Moriarty's probably going to walk."

Mycroft's mouth flattened into a thin line. "Oh dear."

"What should be done about that?" Lestrade tilted his head. "You know, I could just sweep the whole place. Moriarty gets tossed in jail, we all go home happy, yeah?"

"Which would do us absolutely no good in finding out anything new about Moriarty's code." Mycroft reminded him.

"True." Lestrade nodded. "But if Moriarty's locked up, who's going to use the code? Only he knows how to."

"We don't know that for certain." Mycroft responded darkly. "And until we do, we can't risk our one lead on the matter."

"Right, well, I'll just keep my eye on Moran. That's what I'm good at." Lestrade sighed. "I'll leave all that spy business to the spymaster."

"Thank you." Mycroft nodded his head.

"Just know that if you let the fish swim too long, it'll get wise and cut the line." Lestrade warned him. "Don't lose sight of Moriarty."

Mycroft nodded again. "That's not something I am planning to do."

"Good."


	47. Chapter 45

Chapter Forty Five

There was a heaviness in the air, a depressing weight almost tangible, pressing down on Lestrade's shoulders.

He flipped to the next page of the newspaper he was reading and hummed.

"Crime of the Century." he read aloud, flipping the newspaper around so his companion could see the headline.

"Hm." Sebastian Moran grunted back, not even looking up from where he was dismantling his gun.

"Come on, crack a smile. Your boss is making headlines." Lestrade sighed when no further words were forthcoming from the sniper.

"Hm." Sebastian shrugged apathetically, reaching for his gun scrubber.

Lestrade set aside his newspaper and leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him, tapping the tips of his thumbs together sporadically as he considered his companion.

Sebastian paused and glanced at him warily as if waiting for Lestrade to lunge forward and bite him.

"Okay." Lestrade grimaced. "So we got off on the wrong foot."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "You nearly broke my nose." he said.

"Nearly." Lestrade defended himself.

"You chased me halfway across London!"

"It was only two blocks!"

"I had to dump that car I was driving, it was actually mine." the sniper complained.

"Your boss ran me over with_ his_ car, and he didn't dump it!" Lestrade pointed out.

"That's because he's an idiot." Sebastian shot back.

"Yes." Lestrade agreed. "Yes he is. Why the Hell did he let himself get caught by the police, anyway?"

Sebastian shrugged. "Because he's a drama queen."

"I swear to God, he and Sherlock Holmes are trying to out-diva each other." Lestrade groaned.

"It's not my business." Sebastian rolled his eyes. "I just get money to do Jim's odd jobs. 'Why' isn't a question I have any need to ask."

"Point." Lestrade conceded. "But, I have to admit, I'm looking forward to seeing where all this is headed."

Sebastian looked at him. "Don't we all."

Lestrade just nodded back.

Both knew that Sebastian knew exactly where this was all headed. And Lestrade was not privy to that information.

"But anyway..." Lestrade picked up the newspaper again. "At least your boss got a good picture."

Sebastian's gaze flicked toward Lestrade, then back down to his gun laid bare before him with a noncommittal grunt. Then, surreptitiously back briefly to look at the picture, and then Sebastian began ignoring him again.

Two glances. Lestrade smiled and folded the newspaper on his lap thoughtfully.

How interesting.

* * *

><p>"Hey, John." Lestrade greeted, walking up to the blond man within the walls of the Old Bailey. "You okay?"<p>

"Yeah, I'm fine." John nodded nervously. "What are you-...?"

"I'm just here for moral support." Lestrade said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Did you eat?"

"Tried, earlier." John grimaced. "Didn't feel like an eating day."

"I know what you mean." Lestrade smiled sympathetically. "Packed a few sandwiches for you lads, anyway."

"Thanks." John smiled back, taking the plastic bag Lestrade offered, feeling oddly touched at the gesture despite his and Sherlock's considerable history of being fed by the chef.

"Where's the star witness, then?" Lestrade asked.

"Sherlock? Just stepped out to the bathroom." John replied.

"You nervous about the trial?" Lestrade asked him.

"Well, it's a trial with Sherlock as the star witness." John reminded. "What could possibly go wrong?" he snorted sarcastically.

Lestrade let out a short little laugh at that. "Right. Well, good luck, then."

"You're not staying?" John asked him.

"I've got to go back." Lestrade said apologetically. "I left Stan in charge of the diner, but I feel bad leaving him alone. Mrs. Hathaway adores cooing over him and pinching his cheeks. Reminds her of her boy, she says."

John laughed. "I see."

"Well then, keep Sherlock out of trouble." Lestrade said encouragingly.

John just let out a hysterical little giggle of despair. "Bye, Greg."

"Bye." Lestrade waved and walked off.

He passed by Sherlock on his way out. "Hey Sherlock, good luck." he called out.

Sherlock just nodded as he hurried by. "I probably won't need it." he said.

Lestrade just smiled after him, internally betting with himself on to what degree Sherlock would be wrong about that.

He turned back to continue on his way when he bumped into a woman exiting the bathrooms.

"Oh, sorry!" Lestrade exclaimed, steadying the woman. "I didn't see you there."

"Oh, no problem." The strawberry-blonde simpered. "Are you a friend?" She nodded at Sherlock's retreating figure.

Lestrade turned to follow her gaze. "Sherlock? I guess, yeah." He turned back and looked her up and down, once. Taking in the deerstalker hat clenched in her hand. "Uhh..."

"Oh, this...?" The woman chuckled self-deprecatingly, lifting the deerstalker. "Borrowed it from a friend." She held out her free hand. "I'm Kitty Riley."

Lestrade shook it. "Hi, nice to meet you. I hope you weren't here for an interview in that hat, because that wouldn't have been so good."

"I wish somebody would've told me that earlier." Kitty grumbled, then looked at him, hopeful. "You wouldn't happen to have a word to share, would you?"

She held a dictaphone up toward him. Lestrade raised a hand and gently pushed it away. "Maybe not today, love."

"Well." She put away her dictaphone and handed him her card. "Maybe not today. But - I hope, for your friend's sake - someday."

Lestrade took it. "That's not ominous at all." he said and began walking away.

"Wait, you didn't tell me your name!" Kitty called after him.

"That's true." Lestrade conceded and left.

* * *

><p>"Wow, it's been ages." Donovan marveled as she scrubbed the bottom of a pot in the kitchen of the Strangers Cafe.<p>

"You've been busy." Lestrade responded as he dried and stacked clean plates. Mornings were always slow and lazy, in his opinion. "How's the trial going?"

"Smooth sailing, the whole trial through." Donovan replied with a troubled sigh.

"Why don't you sound so happy?" Lestrade asked her curiously.

"Moriarty hasn't put up a single defense this entire trial." Donovan confessed. "He's just _sitting there_ expecting the jury to find him innocent."

"Well, as you've said, he hasn't defended himself." Lestrade said. "They won't."

"It doesn't feel right." Donovan said darkly. "He's smarter than this. Something's not right."

Just then, Lestrade's phone rang with a text.

**_Taxi service for Jim Moriarty. -JM_**

"Hey, do you think you can manage for an hour, or so?" Lestrade asked as he slung his dishrag over his shoulder. "I'll call Stan in to help. I need to go do a thing."

"What thing?" Donovan asked.

"Just a thing." Lestrade reiterated evasively as he made his way out of the kitchens. "And ask Dimmock what's going on at the trial!"

"_What?_"


	48. Chapter 46

Chapter Forty Six

"I just dropped Moriarty off at Baker Street." Lestrade announced as he marched into the flat he had Sebastian situated in. "Is this a part of your boss's big scheme, or is he just goofing off, because I actually have a legal job and I have to keep up pretenses. If you haven't noticed, I'm friends with a copper."

Sebastian just rolled his eyes lazily over to him and shrugged. "He has a plan for everything." he said. "But he probably just wanted to gloat in front of the detective."

"I'll bet." Lestrade huffed, rolling his eyes. "Not three hours after being released and he rushes off to Sherlock shouting 'Alakazam!'"

Sebastian snorted derisively.

Lestrade looked at him. "You know, he's been taking a very keen interest in Sherlock Holmes. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's enamored in a creepy, twisted, ...crazy way."

Sebastian shrugged. "Maybe." he turned to glower at Lestrade. "Something you want to say, Lestrade?"

"He's never going to look at you, you know." Lestrade said to him seriously. "Not when he's got someone more interesting like Sherlock right under his nose."

To his surprise, Sebastian just laughed. "Course." he said good naturedly. "So?"

"Well..." Lestrade began, but Sebastian cut him off.

"I'm not going to pine after someone I know I'll never have." Sebastian said casually. "I'm not you."

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest at the jibe, but the words died on his tongue when Sebastian just raised his eyebrows at him in a challenging manner.

"Lestrade." The sniper sighed. "You have absolutely no right to lecture me on anything. Why do people listen to you?"

"Oh, they don't." Lestrade wrinkled his nose.

"Good for them."

"But seriously, why him?" Lestrade complained. "I mean, no offense but he's a crazy psychopath Hellbent on destruction."

"As opposed to a narcissistic, antisocial, political puppeteer Hellbent on living the life of a cartoon super villain?" Sebastian quipped back with a grin. "You haven't got a leg to stand on, Lestrade."

"You once wrestled a man-eating cougar in Kandahar." Lestrade intoned flatly. "You're stupid, and I hate you."

"You were the one who insisted on sitting on the sidelines and watching, instead of running for your life." Sebastian snickered. "Admittedly, you were smashed at the time. Ah, the good old days of the Tankerville Club. When we were both honourable military men with no criminal records."

"Don't remind me." Lestrade groaned. "We did our fair share of stupid stuff, didn't we?"

"Your antics got you noticed by MI5. Mine got me noticed by Jim Moriarty. So it all turned out okay in the end, didn't it?" Sebastian shrugged.

"Yeah, but you only went with him because he was your type." Lestrade frowned. "If you've given up on him, why are you still here?"

Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. "He's an idiot and he's going to get himself killed, one day. He's been lucky I've been here to get him this far. I just can't leave him to his own devices."

Lestrade put on a sour expression.

"Don't make me ask you why_ you_ stay." Sebastian threatened with a grin.

Lestrade's sour expression turned bitter. "Fine."

Sebastian considered Lestrade for a long moment. "You know, it's so weird seeing you by yourself. Now that Alan's not around to keep your nose out of trouble."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Drop it, Moran." he griped.

"You know, there were rumors circulating around about what really happened to your brother." Sebastian told him. "They never really stopped. Nobody buys all that KIA bullshit that you concocted with MI5, what's the deal with all that? The only thing that anybody seems to know about it is that he's dead."

Lestrade breathed out heavily. "I said drop it, Sebastian." he repeated, firmer this time.

"Fine, fine. But I'm just warning you that someday, someone's going to leak the story to the wrong people and I hope you've got your ass firmly covered." He extended a pack he had in his breast pocket. "Smoke?"

"I'll be fine, thanks." Lestrade declined politely and answered Sebastian in the same sentence.

Sebastian grunted a little in surprise. "When did you stop?"

"I don't know. Recently." Lestrade replied, thinking seriously about the matter for the first time. "Too busy to find time to smoke now. I just sort of... I don't know. Realized I wasn't smoking anymore."

"Hah, lucky you." Sebastian grunted. "I tried to stop twice, never worked out."

"Oh, really? And why was that?"

"First time was back in Kandahar, getting high on petrol fumes. Second time and I was already working with Moriarty." Sebastian rolled his eyes. "I have never found a good day to stop smoking with all that was going on. Kandahar, working with Moriarty, it's not much different at all." he sighed.

Lestrade just laughed at him. "You poor bastard."

* * *

><p>"What's this?" Moriarty called out suddenly, waving Kitty Riley's business card aloft.<p>

"What-..." Lestrade patted himself down. "When did you-...?"

Moriarty blinked his eyes innocently.

"Nevermind." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "That's nothing. Stop going through my stuff, it's rude."

Moriarty just shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "I'm going to keep this." he announced.

"You can't just claim other people's stuff as your own!" Lestrade protested before he remembered that he was speaking to the man who illegally wore the Crown Jewels just a bit before. "You know what? Whatever."

Moriarty just nodded in satisfaction before practically dancing off to do whatever he did when he wasn't toying with the Holmeses, causing havoc, or stealing Lestrade's possessions.

Sebastian just walked up and stood beside Lestrade, holding out his cigarettes.

Lestrade looked at the proffered peace offering and shook his head. "Thanks. Now I know what you mean."

Sebastian smirked and slid a cigarette into his mouth. "Try working with him semi-permanently."

"How do you manage?" Lestrade asked him.

Sebastian's smile widened. "He's my type." he reminded Lestrade and lit up.


	49. Chapter 47

Chapter Forty Seven

"Well, he's going to do something absolutely stupid, is what I think!" Lestrade said into his phone as he scrubbed Ares's wet fur with a soapy scrubber with one hand.

Ares whined at the shared attention and flicked his great big tail, splashing foamy water onto Lestrade.

"Oi! Stop that!" Lestrade barked sternly at the canine. "_Stop_."

Ares whimpered and dropped his head limply, staring up at Lestrade with large, soulful eyes.

"Quit-... don't look at me like that." Lestrade whispered at him, feeling the first blooming bursts of guilt.

Mycroft walked into the bathroom where all this was going on. "Lestrade?"

"Okay, gotta go." Lestrade said into his phone and immediately hung up. He turned and smiled at Mycroft. "Hey."

"Who was that?" Mycroft asked curiously.

"Nobody." Lestrade replied quickly, too quickly.

"Your employer?" Mycroft guessed.

"_Okay_, it was." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Did you tell your brother about that thing with assassins moving into Baker Street?"

"Yes, I told John. He was nearly thrown out of the Diogenes Club before I could even meet with him. I'm so glad I told the staff he was coming." Mycroft replied.

"And you couldn't spare a personal visit?" Lestrade asked him.

"To Baker Street? When I know there are several assassins living in their neighborhood?" Mycroft reminded primly. "No thank you. And I hardly think Sherlock would agree to come out of his way to meet with me. Even if it is something as important as this. " He eyed the sopping wet Ares. "I see you two are quite busy. You brought him here?"

"I just took him out for a walk." Lestrade told him, scrubbing Ares with both hands now leading to a very happy dog. "Ares loves rolling in a good mud puddle. Reminds him of the Moors. HQ No.2 was closer than the Strangers Cafe. And it doesn't hurt to have a guard dog around."

"Ah." Mycroft leaned in the doorway and watched Lestrade work clumpy gobs of mud from his pet's fur.

"Oh my God, Ares, is that gum in your fur?" Lestrade retched as he worked through the fine hairs. "Ares, there is gum. In your fur._ Gum._ How do you do this to yourself? I hope you don't expect me to bathe you in my shower every time."

"I would advise you buy one of those plastic pools for children." Mycroft piped up thoughtfully. "And you would do good to invest in a pair of clippers and dog shampoo. Some have allergic reactions toward human shampoos."

Lestrade paused and turned. "You had a dog?"

"No." Mycroft replied flatly. Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "It was Sherlock's." he amended ruefully.

"Who put a living creature in _Sherlock's_ care?" Lestrade asked, appalled.

"Our loving parents." Mycroft scoffed. "The only reason it lived as long as it did was because it snuck into the next door neighbor's house for care." The government agent shook his head reminiscently. "You should've seen Sherlock's face when he once looked out of the window to see the boy from next door walking Redbeard up the lane to return him."

He looked up to see the oddest expression on Lestrade's face. A look that was a mixture of white-faced horror, and pleasant surprise. "What?" Mycroft asked him.

Lestrade shook his head this time. "Just... _Sherlock_, with a _dog_." he smiled. "I don't know if I should find that endearing, or positively terrifying."

There was a little hope in that odd expression of his, but Mycroft couldn't place why so he didn't mention it.

"It was a gentle giant." Mycroft smiled. "Much too large for Sherlock as a young child to do much damage, even if he tried."

"Did he?" Lestrade asked gingerly.

"No, he did not." Mycroft huffed. "He liked Redbeard more than he liked most people."

"Did you?" Lestrade asked him.

"I - ah, perhaps I did." Mycroft replied reluctantly. "But he was not my dog."

Lestrade looked at Mycroft sadly. "You were a very lonely child, weren't you, Mycroft?"

"I had more pressing duties than playing hop-scotch with the locals." Mycroft huffed, forcing a smile.

"Oh, come on, you must've had a few mates." Lestrade encouraged.

"No... just." Mycroft shook his head. "No, nevermind."

"Out with it, you started saying something, I'll not rest until I hear the end of it." Lestrade chuckled. "So who is this mysterious... friend? Highschool sweetheart? Something?"

"An acquaintance." Mycroft snorted. Then, he fell silent, smiling.

"He - or she - is a lucky acquaintance." Lestrade smiled back.

"Oh please! I met him three times." Mycroft coughed uncomfortably.

"Ooh! Childhood crush?" Lestrade's eyes lit up gleefully. "And it's a 'him'! Mycroft Holmes, I never! What's his name?"

"I don't know." Mycroft shrugged sheepishly. "Like I said, I only met him thrice."

"Ohh, that's no fun." Lestrade moaned and pulled the plug on his bath, watching the water recede around Ares. "Come on, boy! Let's get you dried off!"

Ares barked once, happily, and leaped out of the tub.

"Oh please don't..." Mycroft murmured, predicting the amorous canine's next move.

Which would be to rub up against Mycroft's legs, drenching the suit pants.

Mycroft just turned defeated eyes on Lestrade who promptly burst out laughing. "Sorry!" Lestrade wheezed. "Come back, Ares!"

Ares padded obediently over to Lestrade and let himself be toweled down briskly.

"You're right." Lestrade said, upon inspection. "He does need a trim." He brushed Ares's fur with his fingers and grinned. "Look at you, you handsome fellow!"

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. "You remind me of him." he said at length.

"Your friend?" Lestrade asked. "Or Sherlock's dog?"

"Yes." Mycroft responded flatly.

"Come on!"

"My friend." Mycroft relented, chuckling.

"Good." Lestrade smiled with a slight nod. "I'm glad."

Just then, Lestrade's phone began ringing, causing both men to jump.

Lestrade let out an unintelligible noise and fumbled with the device. "Sorry." he grimaced at Mycroft and picked up. "Donovan?"

_"Lestrade, I need you to do something for me."_ Donovan said quietly.

"Donovan - _Sally_ - I was having a moment!" Lestrade complained vehemently.

_"I'll ask with who later, I just-..."_ Donovan took a moment to breathe.

That get Lestrade to stop and listen seriously. "What is it, Donovan? What's wrong? Who do I need to kill?" he asked her.

_"I trust Dimmock's judgement, but I need a non-starry-eyed opinion."_ Donovan explained.

"About what?"

_"Can I trust Sherlock Holmes?"_


	50. Chapter 48

Chapter Forty Eight

"Um... what exactly are we talking about?" Lestrade asked, confused. "Because if it's something non-scientific or detective-y, I'm not sure I have the confidence to say yes."

He motioned to Mycroft who seemed to understand and took Ares out of the bathroom by the ruff and quietly shut the door behind him.

_"I'm being serious about this."_ Donovan retorted._ "Just-..."_

"Breathe." Lestrade told her firmly, sensing that now was not the time for jokes. "Just breathe, Donovan."

He could hear the woman suck in a breath and blow it out.

"Tell me what happened." Lestrade instructed her.

_"There is this case."_ Donovan began. _"A kidnapping case. The two children of the Ambassador to the U.S..."_

"Rufus Bruhl?" Lestrade cut in, concerned.

_"Yeah. His kids disappeared."_ Donovan nodded on the other end._ "We found them... the Freak helped us find them."_

"That's good, yeah?" Lestrade sighed in relief.

_"But that's where everything goes to shit."_ Donovan said seriously._ "We had to send Max Bruhl to the hospital for mercury poisoning, but his sister Claudette we brought in to Scotland Yard. We let the Freak in to talk to her but..."_

"But?" Lestrade encouraged.

_"She screamed at him."_ Donovan sighed heavily and Lestrade could picture her pinching and rubbing the bridge of her nose._ "God she screamed, Greg."_

"She's in shock, she's scared..." Lestrade tried to reason.

_"She didn't have that reaction to anybody else."_ Donovan informed him._ "Just Sherlock Holmes."_

"Well, you have to admit he is pretty intimidating." Lestrade pointed out. "He could make grown men scream with fright. Did he pop his collar down?"

_"He did."_ Donovan rolled her eyes. _"Dimmock had to kick him out. It took us fifteen minutes to calm the poor girl down. She hasn't spoken, since."_

"And... this is Sherlock's fault, you think?" Lestrade huffed.

_"He found those kids by a footprint."_ Donovan said. _"He himself said that those kids might've seen the kidnapper, and she screamed in terror when she saw him."_

"Well, think about it logically, Donovan." Lestrade urged her, fighting down a brief flare of anger at his friend's suspicion. "This is Sherlock, we're talking about. If he really did do it, do you think he'd be so stupid as to let himself be seen by those kids? You know how smart he is, you know how resourceful. Besides, with Moriarty on the loose, he's got something much more pressing to deal with, do you think he's got time to pull this off?"

_"Well..."_

"And say he did do it and let those kids see him. Do you think he'd waltz in and face them? He would never incriminate himself like that by letting Claudette identify him." Lestrade continued. "And why? What would be the motive you'd pin this to him with? Was there some scientific angle to this case? Were the kids experimented on? Physically? Psychologically?"

_"No."_ Donovan snapped. _"But he's crazy! We don't know what he's thinking! He seemed to be enjoying himself this whole case well enough."_

"And that's exactly why he isn't the kidnapper." Lestrade surmised. "If he was, he'd know every move, every detail of the case. Sherlock only enjoys the puzzle, the mystery, the act of understanding something he previously had no knowledge of. And even if he was the sort of person who could do such a thing, he wouldn't choose children as his victims. He would probably choose someone clever, smart, intelligent enough to interest him, to stimulate him. Not kids. Whatever you may think of him - Donovan - Sherlock is not your kidnapper. It doesn't fit his profile."

There was a lengthy silence.

_"Why did you quit, Lestrade?"_ Donovan asked quietly. _"That doesn't fit **your** profile, either."_

"I found my true profession in the kitchen." Lestrade snorted.

_"Liar."_ Donovan blew out a breath. _"You're better at my job than I am. Probably better than Dimmock, or anybody else here, for that matter. Helping people. Solving mysteries. Giving victims and the people close to them closure. You were great at it. It was your life. It oozed out of every word you said. You** inspired** me, you know? You still do. Why did you quit?"_

Lestrade opened his mouth... and then closed it. "Have you considered the possibility that someone is trying to frame Sherlock? I mean, he's pretty famous, got his own fanclub and all. Maybe some maniac is trying to get his attention."

Donovan nodded to herself, accepting that she asked a question Lestrade would probably never answer._ "I'll look into it. But like you said: the Freak's famous. And you know him. He's probably got a list of enemies with a history of mental illnesses the length of your arm."_

"Hang in there, Sal." Lestrade encouraged. "You'll get your man, you always do."

_"You know it."_

* * *

><p>"Hang on, sweetie." A kind policewoman smiled at Claudette as she stood. "I'll just be gone for a moment, I'll bring back something for you to drink. Are you hungry?"<p>

Claudette just stared straight ahead blankly, thumb jammed into her mouth.

The woman's face softened sympathetically as she squeezed the traumatized girl's shoulder encouragingly. "I'll be right back, Claudette."

She walked out of the room and faced another officer who was just walking in. "Hey, could you stay here? I don't want to leave her alone."

The man nodded and the policewoman walked away, briefly wondering if the man was new. She had never seen him in here before...

She shook her head and went on her way.

The man watched her leave before slipping into the room with Claudette, glancing around briefly to verify that they were alone.

He walked over and knelt down by Claudette's chair. "Hello, Claudette." he said gently. "I'm a friend of your father's."

Claudette's eyes scrolled almost lifelessly across the room until they rested on the man's face. They stopped.

Her pouty lips, bitten bloody, trembled around her thumb and tears threatened to spill again.

"I know you." she murmured slowly, voice shaky. "You were with Daddy... when he went to America."

"Yes, I work with your father." Lestrade replied, nodding. "Can you please tell me about what happened? Is that alright?"

Claudette pressed her eyes closed painfully, squeezing tears out and letting them roll down her cheeks.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Lestrade cooed, wiping away a tear with the pad of his thumb. "You're okay. And Max is okay, too. You were very brave. Can you talk to me?"

Claudette opened her eyes again and let out a soft whimper.

"I think I'll understand you better if you weren't trying to eat your thumb." Lestrade teased gently, offering a small smile.

Claudette slowly lowered her hand from her face.

"Very good." Lestrade encouraged. "Now, do you know where every good story starts, Claudette?"

"From the beginning." the little girl replied obediently.

Lestrade smiled. "Let's start there, then. Shall we?"


	51. Chapter 49

Chapter Forty Nine

"Mycroft." Lestrade shuffled through the front door to their secondary HQ after his visit to New Scotland Yard.

Mycroft looked up from where he was sitting on the sofa, petting Ares who was restricted to floor space only. "What is it, Lestrade?"

"I don't want to alarm you, or anything." Lestrade began. "But I think Sherlock should brace himself to become a potential suspect in a high-profile kidnapping case."

"What!"

Lestrade winced. "Okay, you're alarmed."

"What happened?" Mycroft snapped, already pulling out his phone.

"Nothing really." Lestrade assured him. "Just Sherlock being Sherlock and a scared little girl being made to believe that she and her brother were kidnapped by Sherlock."

Mycroft's mouth hung open for a moment. "Moriarty." he realized with an exasperated look.

Lestrade nodded. "Sounds like his M.O. And if you dress Moran up efficiently he could pass as Sherlock's doppelganger well enough to convince two terrified children who probably only remember a large black coat, blue scarf, and curly hair. Even Claudette's size description was vague at best."

Mycroft leveled him a look. "Is that where you had gone?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Did you infiltrate the New Scotland Yard?"

"Yes."

"My sources informed me that she was not speaking."

"Yes."

There was a brief silence. "Apparently, you're different." Mycroft said, leaving room for Lestrade to open up a further explanation.

"Don't you wish you could bottle and sell my interrogation techniques." Lestrade responded smartly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows with an expression of disappointment mixed with impatience that immediately reminded Lestrade of Anthea.

"I know her dad." Lestrade confessed. "She's the daughter of a high-profile civil servant and she knows better than to talk to strangers about nearly everything. But she recognized me and deemed me safe to talk to."

"I know." Mycroft nodded. "Anthea dug up six year's worth of off-the-record correspondence during and after your time in MI5."

"Is that where she's been hiding?" Lestrade asked evasively. "I thought I hadn't seen her for a while."

"That is_ exactly_ where she's been." Mycroft stated. "Dusting off case files from your last year in the Service."

Lestrade let out an uneasy laugh. "Wow, Mycroft, you were being rather serious about 'pulling that thread' I thought we were supposed to be putting on a radio show for Moriarty."

"I was, initially." Mycroft conceded. "But after a moment's thought I realized that a large amount of the things you do, the decisions you make, lead back to something that happened to you in MI5. It's been struck from record. I'll have to start an internal inquisition on that later on. Something happened, you were involved, MI5 swept it under the rug. They even kept it from my eyes, and by proxy, the eyes of the Crown. This is something that concerns me."

"Like I told you." Lestrade said, his fake smile falling away from his face. "You won't like what you find."

"Just because I don't like it doesn't mean I can ignore it until it becomes someone else's problem." Mycroft replied simply.

"Oooor, you can." Lestrade drawled out. "It's what the last guy in your position did."

"He was fired, if you don't recall." Mycroft reminded him. "By me, no less."

"Yeah, but here's the thing, Mycroft: there's really nobody around to know that you suspect. And nobody stupid enough to fire you, even if they do." Lestrade pointed out. "Somehow, I doubt there really is anybody in a position of authority who can do that."

"Unfortunately, that is wishful thinking." Mycroft told him soberly.

"You keep my secret, I'll keep yours?" Lestrade smiled hopefully.

"I'd have to know your secret in order to keep it." Mycroft grumbled.

"Then, consider this a favor I'm doing for you." Lestrade smirked. "Because you're my favorite secret agent."

"Do you really think you can make me stop?" Mycroft raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"I don't think there's a force on earth that can stop Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade replied simply.

"Then what are you trying to do here, Lestrade?"

"Delaying the inevitable." Lestrade smiled ruefully. "I like playing the good guy. But it seems that I must be revealed as the villain. After all, I'm not a hero, I can't exactly hold a candle to you. Or Sherlock. Or John. I'm just a man, you're on the side of the Angels." he drew out with a slightly bitter look.

"Who are you really?" Mycroft asked him.

"I'm the good guy... for a while longer." Lestrade responded, brushing a hand up Mycroft's shoulder, and down his back as he slid around the government agent to get past him and into the bedroom. "Until then, let's be friends."

Mycroft spun around and grabbed Lestrade arm, causing the man to freeze.

Mycroft turned Lestrade's wrist, baring the more vulnerable inner arm.

"What is this?" he asked, laying his eyes on the slight blemish nestled in the crook of Lestrade's elbow where a cursory glance told him a needle once was inserted.

Lestrade let him examine him. "You tell me."

Mycroft leaned in an inhaled, breathing in the smells lingering on Lestrade's clothes. Lestrade, who had been subjected to such treatment many times before by the younger Holmes, just stood there and let him.

He could only thank the Heavens that Mycroft was much more reserved and less enthusiastic in his ministrations than his brother was.

He could see the gears in Mycroft's head turn at a near dizzying speed.

And suddenly, they stopped.

"Oh." Mycroft breathed. "You are a clever one, Lestrade."

"That's why you like me so much." Lestrade grinned.

"I will make arrangements." Mycroft announced.

"No." Lestrade laughed. "You'll make arrangements for the fallout._ I'll_ arrange everything that comes before that."

"Ah yes." Mycroft bounced a little on the balls of his feet. "Forgive me, I had forgotten that you are the expert in this area."

Lestrade nearly reacted. "Oh I'm alright at it." He lied with a bright smile as he hooked his arm around Mycroft's. "So, Mister Holmes, how shall we go about killing your brother?"

"I should say I haven't thought of it." Mycroft responded. "But that would be a lie."

"By the way." Lestrade lowered his voice to a whisper. "I think we've just ignored Ares's designated 'love and affection' time and I think he hates us."

Mycroft paused and turned to see Ares just sitting still and staring at them with the most disappointed and exasperated look.

"I swear he's half-cat." Lestrade intoned.

"No he's not." Mycroft leaned down and patted his knees. "Ares, come!"

The enthusiastic bound was enough to knock the two full-grown men over.

"Okay." Lestrade laughed, scratching Ares behind the ears as the canine happily slapped the floor with his tail. "Point proven."

Mycroft sat up and sighed. "I will see if I can make him prove it with a little less loss of dignity."

"Nooo." Lestrade whined. "You'll turn him into a real cat."


	52. Chapter 50

Chapter Fifty

Mycroft heard Lestrade's phone ring and felt Lestrade roll over in the dark. "Moriarty?" he asked.

"Anthea." Lestrade replied, voice rumbly and hoarse with sleep in a way that Mycroft would forever deny enjoying. "Does that woman ever sleep?"

"Sometimes, on Wednesdays." Mycroft yawned.

"Oh my God, Mycroft." Lestrade groaned. "Make her go home."

"I will consider negotiating for Thursdays, if you like." Mycroft snorted.

"Try negotiating for _nighttime._" Lestrade grunted back unhappily.

"But what do I tell her if she asks what she would do with all that sleep?" Mycroft sighed.

Lestrade sat up and looked at Mycroft for a good long moment. Then he rolled his eyes. "You know what? I'm not even going to bother."

"Good." Mycroft closed his eyes again. "I do love keeping the illusion that we are all sane individuals."

Lestrade laughed at Mycroft for two full minutes. "Sane? Mycroft, have you met us?"

Mycroft cracked one eye open again. "What does Anthea want?" he asked pointedly.

"My ass down in Thames House." Lestrade grumbled as he stumbled out of bed and searched for his clothes in the dark. "She'll have to settle for something a little more humble."

"With a little less ears listening in." Mycroft understood because, ex-MI5 or no, Lestrade could walk into MI5's operational base and the only person who could do anything about it was still snuggled naked in his bed with no intention of getting up.

"Right." Lestrade pulled on a T-shirt.

"That's backwards, Lestrade." Mycroft warned him.

There was a moment's silence as Lestrade felt around his collar. "Did you sell your soul for your deductive abilities, or can you feel the disturbance in the Force from over there?" he grunted, turning the shirt.

"I can see the tag, genius." Mycroft hinted.

"Oh, so it's inside-out as well." Lestrade realized, just giving up and pulling the shirt off as he searched for a cleaner one.

"What did Anthea find?" Mycroft asked him.

"She must've been following her own sources because I know what's in my own reports forward and backward." Lestrade shrugged.

"The result of reviewing, rehashing, and rewriting?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow archly.

"I'd like to think it's because I was actually there." Lestrade said. "And because I'd like to keep plausible deniability."

"You're not even trying to hide it from me anymore." Mycroft despaired. "Look how far we've let ourselves come."

Lestrade just chuckled at that. "I'll be around."

"I don't know if I'll believe you." Mycroft responded.

Lestrade shrugged. "Fair enough."

* * *

><p>Anthea didn't even stop for preamble when she and Lestrade met in a secure area.<p>

"I know what happened." she declared. "What happened eight years ago."

Lestrade tilted his head and considered the woman. "So you'd like to believe."

"I know what happened." Anthea repeated, firmer this time.

"Prove it." Lestrade challenged.

Anthea mulled over it. "The Great One." she said at length, enunciating every word carefully.

Lestrade blinked rapidly. Then he burst out into a strained fit of laughter.

Anthea shifted uncomfortably.

Lestrade nearly got himself under control when he glanced at Anthea and his laughter began anew.

"Lestrade."

"Anthea, if I knew your real name, middle name, and surname, I would be using them right now." Lestrade wheezed. "You slept with Irene Adler, didn't you?"

Anthea grimaced.

"You-... you've got guts." Lestrade wiped a tear from his eye. "You're sleeping with Irene, I'm sleeping with Mycroft, it's enough to make anyone cry."

Anthea crossed her arms. "Well, honey, I was feeling lonely because you were cheating on me."

This cause Lestrade to go on another stretch of giggles. "Oh my God." he panted. "I can't take any of this seriously right now. How did you make her talk?"

"You're not the only one with skills." Anthea huffed.

Lestrade shuddered. "I did not want to think about that. Ever."

Anthea whacked him on the shoulder. "I'll have you know that I am desirable, flexible, and a little bit kinky, and you'll never have any idea."

"Oh I know, and I have an idea." Lestrade retorted. "Not like I_ wanted_ any idea. You're like my_ sister_, you know?"

"Positively incestuous." Anthea reminded sweetly.

"Scandalous." Lestrade agreed mildly. "Donovan's going to hate us forever when she inevitably finds out the truth."

"She will." Anthea nodded sagely.

"So what did you really drag me out here at God-knows-what hour for?" Lestrade complained.

"I'm playing messenger." Anthea rolled her eyes. "Irene wants me to inform you that she sold you out to Mycroft through me, she said to gloat appropriately in your face. Also, she'll pull some strings on an international level for Sherlock but for a favor."

"Of course." Lestrade nodded.

"She said to make you pick up the favor." Anthea told him cryptically. "She said not to tell you who to expect, you'll know when you see. She wanted it to be a surprise."

"A bad surprise, or a good one?" Lestrade asked gingerly.

"A good one, I am led to believe." Anthea smiled. "The surprise should be coming in the next flight. Better hurry."

Lestrade glanced at his watch and started off.

* * *

><p>Lestrade walked into the airport and glanced around, unsure of what he should be doing next, or what to be prepared for.<p>

He sidled over to a souvenir store and flipped through a magazine as he scanned the population.

He was told he'd know the surprise when he saw him, or her.

"Hello, Lestrade." A woman's voice came from behind him.

Lestrade jumped and spun around. He stopped still, eyes widening. "Oh my God."

"I came in on an earlier flight." The lady said, taking off her sunglasses. "I was under orders to scare the pants off you." she grinned impishly.

Lestrade let out a slightly hysterical giggle and threw his arms around the girl. "Christ, it's good to see you!"

"It's good to see you, too." The woman squeezed him back warmly. "And, from now on, it's Mary... okay?"


	53. Chapter 51

Chapter Fifty One

_"Lestrade."_ Mycroft greeted brusquely over the phone.

"Mycroft." Lestrade responded, in a tone just as clipped.

_"There is a corpse that I would like to have removed from Bart's Morgue quickly."_ Mycroft explained quickly. _"The name is Sulejmani-..."_

"Anthea's been with Irene!" Lestrade blurted out in one great breath that he had been holding.

There was a brief silence on the other end._ "Quite. I see that this has been weighing heavily on your mind."_

"No, you don't understand." Lestrade continued over Mycroft. "Anthea. With Irene."

_"I heard you."_ Mycroft sighed. _"I arranged it."_

"Why would you-...? How did you know she was alive? Do you know how much damage those two can cause as a team?" Lestrade fired off questions rapidly, they seemed to tumble out of his mouth the moment they crossed his mind. "Nevermind, who convinced you that this was a good idea? Answer that one first, please."

_"Lestrade."_ Mycroft cut his rant off firmly.

Lestrade sucked in a breath and counted to ten.

Then twenty.

Thirty-five...

_"Lestrade, are you still there?"_ Mycroft asked the silence.

"This is a bad idea, Mycroft." Lestrade said calmly. "A phenomenally horrible idea. Anthea left to her own devises can be bad enough. But to throw Irene into the mix?"

_"Lestrade, it won't help to express your panic, even in a poised manner."_ Mycroft sighed._ "You are still panicking and I can hear it."_

"I've had bad days, Mycroft." Lestrade responded. "I've worked with bad people to accomplish bad things. What do you think they will do? What are their demands? And more importantly, can we meet their demands?"

_"Still panicking, Lestrade."_ Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Irene was a considerable threat to the Nation when she was manipulating Sherlock to help her." Lestrade pointed out. "With Anthea? She will be unstoppable."

_"Lestrade, that's not exactly why I called you."_

"It should be." Lestrade said to him gravely. "Drop the Moriarty case. This is more important."

_"Anthea works for me. Not Irene."_ Mycroft reminded him.

"Are you sure? How do you know? Irene is a mistress of persuasion."

_"Lestrade, relax."_

"No. I fear for my life."

Mycroft shook his head with a heavy sigh. _"Just get Sulejmani's body out of the morgue, he has gang markings and tattoos that I hope will not get out to the public. Do it now."_

"Wait, who's dead?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to count to ten._ "Just how occupied are you with the Irene-Anthea situation?"_

"_Very_." Lestrade replied vehemently. "I'm just all occupied-up."

_"Get the body. I will listen to your lecture about flirting with danger later."_

"Fine. But be prepared because I feel a power-point presentation coming on."

_"Lestrade, sometimes you make me question my life's choices."_

"Only because you should."

_"The body. Now."_

"On my way." Lestrade made a noise as if just remembering something. "Oh, by the way. Sherlock's found a camera in his flat. The one that isn't ours. And DI Dimmock tried to bring him in for questioning on the kidnapping case."

_"You're tell me this **now?**"_ Mycroft exclaimed, exasperated.

"My brain was a little bit stuck on Irene and Anthea doing-... doing things! Unfathomable things... which must not be discussed,_ ever_." Lestrade made a distressed little gesture with his free hand despite Mycroft not being there to see it.

_"You could've told me about my brother's situation first!"_

"You could've told me you were sending Anthea into Irene's... web-... lair-... you know!"

There was a stressed little chuckle from the other end. _"Sometimes I wonder if this is what it feels like for parents to teenaged children."_

Lestrade stared at his phone incredulously.

There was a soft cough._ "Forget I said that."_

Lestrade choked on a laugh. "Not bloody likely."

_"So, Sherlock is down at Scotland Yard?"_ Mycroft asked, hoping to distract him.

Lestrade let it happen. "Not yet, but I suspect Dimmock's doubling back with a warrant. Even if I convinced Donovan to reconsider Sherlock as a suspect, Sherlock refusing to come down to the station at this point will convince a lot of other people otherwise."

_"Well, this is... tedious."_ Mycroft remarked.

"You said it." Lestrade sighed. "But... not as troublesome as - say - Irene and Anthea."

_"Leave it alone, Lestrade."_

"Fine. I'm on my way to the morgue right now."

_"Thank you."_

Lestrade hung up.

"Who was that, then?" Mary asked, poking her head into the room.

"Oh, just work." Lestrade shrugged casually.

"Work involving Irene Adler and her newest squeeze?" Mary grinned, raising an eyebrow. "Was that the infamous Mycroft Holmes?"

"You may think that, I could not possibly comment." Lestrade smiled back, sauntering over to the smaller woman.

"Mycroft and Gregory, sitting in a tree..." she sang teasingly.

"Stop that." Lestrade smiled affectionately. "Are you just about settled in, then?" He looked around at he spartan flat. Mary Morstan had still only unpacked the necessities. A professional habit.

"I've still got to shop for curtains. And chairs. And_ things_." Mary grimaced and leaning into Lestrade's side. "Thanks for helping me move in."

"Don't mention it." Lestrade smiled. "So, CIA behind you, what are you planning to do?"

Mary shrugged her shoulders. "I've been cutting down on intelligence work for some time now. Been thinking about calling it quits for good this time."

"Ah." Lestrade looked a little sad.

"You're still in the thick of it, I hear." Mary tilted her head against his shoulder.

"Yeah." Lestrade gently detached himself from her. "Look, I've gotta go."

"Mhmm." Mary hummed understandingly as she saw him out. "Hey, Lestrade."

Lestrade stopped and turned on the front step. "I'll not call you." he promised.

It would only be problematic if those who retired and took on new identities remained in contact with those still in the business.

"Thanks." Mary stepped forward and hugged him. "I'll miss you."

"You too."

"Call if you ever decide to retire." the woman instructed.

"You'll be the first to know."


	54. Chapter 52

Chapter Fifty Two

Lestrade was just exiting Bart's Morgue as Stan loaded the bodybag into the back of a van when Mycroft called him again.

Lestrade glanced once at the caller ID and rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mycroft I've got the body. Just relax, okay?"

_"I have a new objective for you."_ Mycroft told him soberly, a tinge of genuine concern in his voice.

"What, Mycroft!" Lestrade huffed. "Let me finish a job_ before_ giving me a new one, yeah? Slow down!"

_"Sherlock is currently a fugitive."_ Mycroft informed him concisely._ "A warrant has been issued for his arrest, he and Dr. Watson have escaped and are on the run. They are avoiding the CCTVs, quite logically, I need as many men on the ground as we can afford. Sherlock is armed and I cannot guarantee that the police will not shoot them on sight."_

"Alright. I'm on it." Lestrade banged the side of the van twice with a gloved fist and Stan took that as a signal to leave without him. "I'll put a few feelers out. Stan will bring the body back."

_"Thank you."_

"And Mycroft?"

_"Yes, Lestrade?"_

"Deep breaths."

_"I will keep that in mind, thank you."_

* * *

><p>"Well, I found Sherlock." Lestrade reported to Mycroft dutifully as he drove past Kitty Riley's flat.<p>

_"Where is he?"_ Mycroft asked him hastily.

"On the move again." Lestrade sighed. "I followed a hunch."

_"Yes, but **where** are you?"_ Mycroft repeated, slightly more impatient.

"Doesn't matter. Sherlock and John are on their way to... Bart's, I think." Lestrade mentally filtered through every other possible location Sherlock could be moving toward in the direction he had spied Sherlock's cab drive off.

John had hailed another cab and set off in the opposite direction, but Lestrade had him set in a lower tier of priority. But that was the life of a double agent who juggled Britain's brightest and most malicious.

_"A sound decision."_ Mycroft sighed. _"If only they'd stop moving for one moment, I could allocate them to a safehouse."_

"You try telling them that, they took off the moment Sherlock saw my car." Lestrade lied.

_"Keep on them."_ Mycroft instructed._ "And have your informants heard anything from Moriarty?"_

"No." Lestrade lied again. "Believe me Mycroft, if I see hide or hair of the fucking bastard, you'll be the first to know."

_"Very well. Keep in touch."_ Mycroft grunted and hung up.

Lestrade slid his phone back into his pocket and placed both hands on the steering wheel.

"Naughty boy." Moriarty cooed from the shotgun seat, running a hand through his mussed-up hair. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Lestrade scrolled his eyes over toward him with the most disdainful look.

"No." Moriarty conceded absently as he began picking lint off his cardigan. "I guess you wouldn't."

Lestrade snorted and shifted gears.

* * *

><p>John was sitting in a chair in the Diogenes Club, waiting for Mycroft, when the government agent walked in.<p>

"She has _really_ done her homework - Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know." John opened, flipping though a file.

Mycroft quietly shut the door behind him. "Ah."

"Have you _seen_ your brother's address book lately? Two names: yours and mine. And Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me." John went on. Mycroft could hear the calm in John's voice pulled taught over the accusation like a violin string so close to breaking.

Mycroft prepared himself for walking on eggshells with the soldier.

He strode over to the chair directly opposite John and seated himself. "John-..."

"So how does it work, then? Your relationship." John spoke over him. "Do you go out for a coffee now and then? You and Jim?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to explain but John stopped him before he could defend himself.

"Your own brother, and you _blabbed_ about his entire life to this..." John glanced down at the papers in his hand, tearing his gaze away quickly when the sight of Moriarty smiling innocently up at him in a profile picture sent fire racing up and down his veins "..._ maniac_."

Mycroft shook his head. "I never inten-..." His eyes fell on the sheets of paper crumpled in John's hand.

His eyes skimmed the upside-down words of their own accord, a habit that Mycroft had gained quickly in the intelligence business.

Several words, several lines, jumped out at him as being unfamiliar. A ball of ice dropped into the pit of his stomach like something had made the Earth shift seven degrees on it's axis.

Something was wrong.

"I never dreamt ..." he tried to regain his composure, his brain struggling with the idea his instinct spat out at it. Trying to reason - justify - why this was happening.

John gestured angrily toward the papers in question. "So _this-_... this- ...is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it: 'Watch his back, because I've made a mistake'."

A mistake indeed... but not one - Mycroft thought - that was _entirely_ his.

The stories written in Kitty Riley's articles were true, that much was obvious. But some of them weren't his.

Mycroft remembered every word, every fact and anecdote about Sherlock that he had told to Moriarty. He had kept track of them meticulously. But even Mycroft Holmes had things he wished people would not know about his brother.

And yet, here everything was, neatly scripted, organized, laid out for the world to see. Even the things he glossed over, hidden, downright ignored.

Moriarty knew more about Sherlock Holmes than what Mycroft had told him.

John leaned forward. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the _perfect_ ammunition."

The muscles in Mycroft's jaw clenched. If only the ex-military man knew the truth.

Not only had Mycroft personally delivered the bullet, he had loaded and cocked the gun, as well.

"John-..." he spoke at length, as the doctor stood. "I'm sorry."

John let out a disbelieving snort. "Oh please!" and walked away.

Mycroft watched him go. "Tell him, would you?"

John stalked out of the room, leaving the door hanging ajar behind him in his anger.

Mycroft reached into his pocket and called Anthea.

The PA picked up on the first ring._ "Sir?"_

**_"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Two names: yours and mine. And Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."_** Mycroft could hear John's voice still ringing righteously in his skull.

But John had not counted on one other who knew every detail about Sherlock Holmes. The one man who moved in and out of 221b Baker Street without suspicion. The man who was always around when things happened, seemingly by coincidence. The man who cared for Sherlock for longer than the consulting detective even knew John Watson and yet never registered in Sherlock's mind as someone important.

"Get Sherlock, and keep an eye out for Moriarty." Mycroft growled, picking up one of the files John had left behind him.

_"Of course, but Lestrade-..."_

"Is a threat." Mycroft snapped. "We were played."


	55. Chapter 53

Chapter Fifty Three

"Where is he?" Mycroft snapped as he stormed into the office. "Where is my brother? And where is Lestrade?"

"Sherlock and John have been sighted at Bart's." Anthea shook her head. "Still no sign of Lestrade. Should I call him?" she suggested. "He still doesn't know we're on to him, does he?"

"At this point, I don't know what he does and does not know." Mycroft sighed, but pulled out his phone as Anthea ran a trace.

Lestrade picked up._ "What now, Mycroft?"_ he sighed with that perfect combination of exasperation and anticipation.

The words nearly got caught in Mycroft's throat. "There's been a security breach." he lied. "What with all the drama of Moriarty's computer code, it's kicked up a few rats' nests. The cockroaches are all crawling out of the woodwork. I need you to come down here."

_"Can it wait?"_ Lestrade asked him. _"I'm a little busy right now."_

"With what?" Mycroft asked.

_"Well, you've put me on the mission of keeping tabs on Sherlock and finding Moriarty... well, that's what I've been doing. And, I'd hate to alarm you..."_ he said in that tone that never failed to alarm Mycroft. _"...But I've found them."_

Mycroft perked up. "Where?"

_"St. Bart's._" Lestrade told him._ "On the roof. Both of them."_ He sounded genuinely concerned.

"We'll be right there." Mycroft told him hastily. "Hold on-..."

But Lestrade had already hung up.

Mycroft looked to Anthea for confirmation.

Anthea nodded. "St. Bart's."

"Get the car out." Mycroft ordered as he grabbed his coat.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

><p>Sebastian was screwing the silencer on his sniper rifle when he felt a presence.<p>

"Hello, Moran." Lestrade greeted as he discarded the careful silence he had climbed the stairwell with and just clomped up the rest of the way now that the sniper had noticed him.

"Lestrade." Sebastian nodded back. "You here for the show?"

"Where else would I be, but the front seat?" Lestrade responded sitting down a few steps higher than the landing Sebastian had situated himself on.

* * *

><p>Mycroft let out a low growl when his phone call when straight to Sherlock's voice mail. "He's not picking up."<p>

"Dr. Watson was called away for an emergency at Baker Street." Anthea informed him as she got off her own phone.

"A ruse to lure him away." Mycroft frowned. "So he and Sherlock could talk in private."

"He's on his way back." Anthea nodded. "He'll get there before we do, Sir."

"What is he planning?" Mycroft wondered aloud.

"I don't know, Sir." Anthea shook her head. "But whatever it is, it probably won't end well for Sherlock."

"Considering that our main man on the project of faking his death is _not doing his job_, yes!" Mycroft snapped angrily.

Anthea stared at him in slight surprise.

Mycroft took a calming breath. "I'm sorry." he whispered.

"Don't be." Anthea said understandingly.

Just then, Mycroft's phone rang. "Holmes speaking." Mycroft replied.

_"Sir, we are in position."_ Stan informed him crisply.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft furrowed his brow.

_"St. Bart's, Sir."_ Stan told him. _"Lestrade told me to inform you that we are in position and everything is carrying on smoothly."_

"Lestrade, where is he?" Mycroft asked quickly.

_"He's-..."_ there was a brief pause_. "I swear he was right here, Sir."_

"Keep an eye out for him and apprehend him on sight." Mycroft instructed the junior field agent. "Subtlety is paramount, may I remind you. We don't want Moriarty or his men spotting anything out of the ordinary."

_"Sorry Sir, what's this about Lestrade?"_ Stan asked, confused.

"Lestrade is not to be trusted." Mycroft told him firmly. "From this point, you are the agent in charge. This operation is under your control."

There was a slight squeak of distress from the other end._ "... Yes, Sir."_ Stan managed weakly at length.

"You'll be fine." Mycroft promised him.

_"But what should I do after we get Sherlock into the hospital?"_ Stan asked.

"Excuse me?"

_"There is going to be a little switch-a-roo in the hospital to fool Moriarty's men and your younger brother is supposed to be handed off to trusted agents of Lestrade's to be whisked overseas. He hasn't mentioned any names, or anything."_ Stan explained.

"Well, try to keep your hands _on_ my brother, then." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "We'll be there shortly."

_"Yes, Sir."_

* * *

><p>"So..." Lestrade drawled out in the middle of dealing cards for himself and Moran. "You're just... sitting around here until John shows up?"<p>

Sebastian shrugged and picked up the dealt cards, glancing at them briefly before redirecting his attention to the street below. "Not much else to do."

Lestrade took his moment of distraction to lean over and peek at his opponent's cards. "Ah, the glamorous world of assassination."

Sebastian snorted and nudged his hand back into the deck. "Shut up and deal me again. You peeked, you fucking cheater, I know you did."

Lestrade laughed back and did as he was told. "Don't flaunt your cards, then."

Suddenly, there was a gunshot loud as a clap of thunder.

"Oh dear." Lestrade said quietly as both stared out of the window. "I don't remember this part being in the script."

"No, me neither." Sebastian muttered as he leaned toward the window, focused entirely on the scene outside.

"I guess you could say the chips are down, now." Lestrade went on casually, pulling out a silenced handgun from his coat pocket. He trained it on the back of Sebastian's skull. "Anything goes."

Sebastian seemed to sense that something was amiss, and turned.

* * *

><p><strong><em>"Goodbye, John."<em>**

**_"Sherlock!"_**


	56. Chapter 54

Chapter Fifty Four

_Thud!_

People were running, screaming, crowding around the scene of the Fall. All of this had been planned and rehearsed meticulously by Mycroft's men, naturally. John was stumbling across the street in shock and the biker was moving up behind him as planned.

One slight bump and John Watson went down like a sack of potatoes.

Blood was squirted on the ground, Sherlock was situated and posed like a corpse, the ball disappeared under the folds of his clothes.

In all the commotion, nobody noticed the two men that quietly entered a side entrance. One had silver hair, the other wore a large black coat.

"Oh, clever." Sebastian murmured under his breath as he caught a glimpse of Mycroft's men creating the illusion of Sherlock's death like clockwork. "You knew this was going to happen, all along."

"Shush." Lestrade grunted back, digging the barrel of his gun deeper into his side between his ribs.

"What are you planning to do?" Sebastian asked him when he was made to walk down the halls in front of Lestrade.

"Something so brazen, nobody will expect it." Lestrade replied ruefully and drove the butt of his gun into the base of Sebastian's skull, knocking him out instantly.

He caught the unconscious sniper before he fell to the ground and dragged him onto an empty gurney. A dark, curly wig came out of Lestrade's pocket and was set upon the Sebastian's head and fake blood was squirted on his face mimicking the blood on Sherlock's face to a tee.

Lestrade's sharp ears picked up a noise and he quickly hid his weapon as Molly walked in.

"Is..." she gasped. "Is that...?"

"Relax." Lestrade offered her his most reassuring smile. "It's all a part of the plan." he lied.

"Oh, okay." Molly stammered. "What should I do?"

Before he could come up with an explanation, a group of paramedics and medical staff burst in rolling Sherlock in on a gurney.

Lestrade leaned in close to Molly. "Switch-a-roo time is now, Molly." he whispered fervently as he threw a sheet over Sebastian's body to prevent the group passing from noticing the similarities to Sherlock's body.

"You four, go outside and scope the place. There should be someone loitering to take Lazarus out of the country, I want you to find them!" Stan shouted out, shedding his paramedic's uniform. "Two of you, go get Sebastian Moran. I'm not sure if he's been secured."

Lestrade hastily turned his back and donned a cap that covered his hair, hoping that the junior agent did not recognize him.

Four agents keeping eyes out on the street, two entering the building opposite, that left Stan and two others...

Lestrade nudged Molly.

Molly jumped. "Okay, just stop the gurney here!" she instructed the two agents moving Sherlock's gurney. "Okay, could you lot just please help me out here?" She waved them into a side room.

What exactly she planned on making them help her with, Lestrade didn't know. But she was resourceful and Lestrade wasn't going to question it.

Switching the gurneys was an easy task, they rolled easily even with the strength of one man.

Lestrade rolled Sebastian's gurney into Sherlock's place, grabbed the sheet off Sebastian's body and folded it over Sherlock's next, then he snagged Sherlock's gurney, and walked away.

With the wig, the coat, and the fake blood, Stan wouldn't notice that the body on the gurney wasn't Sherlock until he noticed Sebastian's lack of consciousness and would, no doubt, investigate further.

He could hear Stan and the two other agents moving around in the hall he was leaving behind. They took Sebastian's gurney and wheeled it into a different room.

"You can get up, now." Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock's eyes opened and the man sat up, agilely hopping off his moving bed and doffing the sheet covering him, wiping the fake blood off with a corner of it. "How was that, for a magic trick?" he grinned.

Lestrade released the gurney, not bothering to wait around and watch it come to a rolling stop a ways down the hall. "Let's hold off the celebrating until we're safely out of the country, shall we?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked around. "What about Mycroft's men?"

"They're not coming." Lestrade told him brusquely as they strode quickly away. "Too many people will attract attention. Mycroft decided to cut the numbers." he lied smoothly. "Take that coat off."

Sherlock grimaced at him.

"And the scarf." Lestrade added firmly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but reluctantly shed his Belstaff and scarf. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic." Lestrade huffed, handing him a more casual jacket. "Wear that." He ripped the cap off his own head and jammed it down over Sherlock's unruly curls. "And that."

"Oh, dear Lord." Sherlock groaned, adjusting the angle.

"You always say you're a master of disguise." Lestrade encouraged him. "Impress me."

Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

"Get us to the station and on the next train out without being noticed by anyone - and this includes your brother - without my help." Lestrade raised his eyebrows challengingly. "I dare you."

"Shouldn't be too hard." Sherlock grinned to himself in anticipation. He rubbed his hands together. "Shouldn't be a problem at all."

Lestrade and Sherlock walked straight out of one exit while Mycroft and Anthea hastily entered another.

Mycroft approached Stan. "Where is my brother?"

"Hasn't moved since we brought him in." Stan glanced at his watch with the first signs of concern. "With all the stories Lestrade told about him, I thought I'd have to struggle to keep him from moving."

Mycroft entered the mortuary and approached the gurney.

He took one glance and within half a second, deduced the obvious.

"This isn't my brother." Mycroft reached over and pulled off Sebastian's wig.

"What...!" Stan gasped, shocked.

"Comb the place." Anthea snapped at a few of their agents who were loitering, quickly propelling them into motion. "They can't have gone far."

"What's this all about?" Molly asked, confused.

"My brother, Ms. Hooper." Mycroft said, turning to her intimidatingly. "Where. Is. He?"

"Well..." Molly squeaked. "Lestrade just left with him, he said this was all a part of your plan."

"Lestrade." Mycroft groaned, rolling his eyes.

"He was here? I didn't see him." Stan said.

"You wouldn't have."

"They're gone, Sir." Anthea expressed her concern by tapping her fingernails rapidly on the plastic back of her phone as she read her texts. "They're just gone."

Mycroft turned to face the unconscious body on the gurney. "It's Sebastian Moran. In disguise." he spoke aloud.

**_"If you dress Moran up efficiently he could pass as Sherlock's doppelganger well enough..."_** Lestrade had said during the kidnapping case.

"Now don't go on giving yourself any ideas." Mycroft muttered under his breath.


	57. Chapter 55

Chapter Fifty Five

"Sir." Anthea rapped the door to Mycroft's office as she entered. "Our men have found Sherlock's phone, coat, and scarf."

"And my brother?" Mycroft asked, looking up from the paperwork on his desk.

"He's gone." Anthea paused, chewing on her next words. "Lestrade is good, Mycroft. But this level of disappearance is another thing altogether."

Mycroft steepled his hands under his chin. "You think Sherlock is... helping Lestrade disappear?"

"I think Lestrade may be... manipulating your brother even without his knowledge." Anthea replied diplomatically. "You know he's good at that."

"Yes..." Mycroft frowned, inwardly berating himself. "Yes he is."

"Sherlock may not even be aware yet that he has been kidnapped." Anthea went on. "Lestrade could still have him convinced that this is a part of your plan."

Mycroft allowed himself a dark little smile. "Not for long, this is Sherlock we are talking about, after all."

"If it helps, Lestrade will be relatively on his own out there." Anthea remarked. "Now that he knows Irene and I..."

Mycroft sent her a dry look.

Anthea cleared her throat gently. "He will steer clear of anyone who might contact Irene Adler. He knows of Irene's infatuation with Sherlock, it will certainly come to her attention that he is running around rogue. And if she knows, it goes without saying that I and you also know."

Mycroft regarded her silently. "You know everything The Woman knows." he hummed. "Frightening."

Anthea raised her eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing." Mycroft waved her off. "Just thinking about how Lestrade was ranting and raving about the End of the World." he chuckled.

Then, the smile slid off his face.

Anthea seemed to understand. "I will contact Irene Adler, see if she heard anything."

"Yes." Mycroft responded with less than his usual confidence. "Please do."

Anthea nodded and walked away, shutting the doors behind her.

When he was alone, Mycroft slouched against the backrest of his seat and let out a heavy sigh. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and up turned an innocuous tracker.

Mycroft let out a bitter huff and rolled it into the palm of his hand. "Stupid." he whispered to himself and flicked it into a glass of water on his desk.

He watched it sink to the bottom of the clear glass with a clink.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing?" Lestrade jumped when Sherlock returned from his brief trip to the bathrooms toward the rear of the small plane they had boarded.<p>

"Nothing." Lestrade responded quickly, pocketing his phone.

Sherlock just stared at him flatly as if he had not just triggered his suspicions. "Okaaay."

"You dyed your hair." Lestrade pointed out needlessly.

"Blonde, yes." Sherlock groused as he gingerly scooted back into his aisle seat so as not to touch anything he didn't absolutely need to. "You'd be surprised at how drastically a new hair colour and a little gel could change your appearances."

Lestrade examined the new look of Sherlock with blonde curls roughly combed away from his face. He burst out laughing.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What."

"I dunno." Lestrade wheezed. "Your body language says 'lamp post' and your hair says 'James Dean', I am so sorry."

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, leaned back into his seat, and tried to slouch into a comfortable position. He folded his hands in his lap, placed them on his armrests, tried crossing them...

That sent Lestrade into another fit of laughter. "Try this..."

He reached over and threw a blanket over Sherlock's lap. "Hands on the blanket." he instructed. "Consider using the offered eye mask. People will find it hard to identify you, and attendants will leave you alone."

Sherlock did so. "Do you do this a lot?" he asked casually from behind his eye mask.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. Sherlock did not even turn his head. He was pretending to be asleep. "Yes."

"Oh." Sherlock whispered. "Okay."

Lestrade braced himself for more intrusive questioning, but Sherlock was silent for the rest of the flight. Pretending to sleep. Or wandering within his Mind Palace.

Lestrade hoped it was the former.

* * *

><p>Rain pounded on the clear surface of the greenhouse, causing a dull, steady roar that contrasted the warm and calm inside.<p>

Anthea daintily shook several water droplets off her coat as she entered the indoor Eden and swept her immaculate hair off her shoulder.

"I'm glad you could make it." she spoke, without looking up.

Irene drifted out from behind a large shrub heavily laden with blossoms. "I'm glad you called me." She stopped, the heel of her stiletto clicking sharply. "Usually, I call you." she mocked gently, smiling.

"Well, I'm not the kind of girl who goes for public sex." Anthea responded.

Irene pouted, tilting her head. "Shame. So that's _not_ why you called me here."

"Sherlock Holmes is dead." Anthea opened.

"Is that the word on the street?" Irene raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

"You tell me." Anthea shrugged.

Irene crossed her arms and sauntered closer. "I like greenhouses." she said. "I've a few fond memories of them. The Royal Greenhouse of Laeken, Brussels. Have you been?"

"Not really an outdoors type." Anthea told her.

"Beautiful place." Irene smiled reminiscently. "I and a close fellow went 'stargazing' after hours. Trouble was that the only kind of stars I enjoy are stupid, rich, and easy to manipulate. And unfortunately for Big Brother, neither of those attributes can be applied to me so tell him if he wants something from me, it's going to cost him."

"It's going to cost him his brother if you don't help me." Anthea snapped back.

"And you think I should care?" Irene furrowed her brow innocently.

"No, I think you owe Sherlock Holmes for saving your life." Anthea said. "And you owe Mycroft Holmes for letting the world think you're dead."

"Oh honey, I only owe people who can prove I owe them." Irene responded smartly.

"_I_ can." Anthea stated frankly without even missing a beat.

Irene paused. And laughed. "Well..." she giggled. "... That took an unexpected turn. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Two can play at the blackmail game, and I learned from the best." Anthea smiled. With teeth.

"Kitten's got claws." Irene smiled and relented. "Very well, just this once. But remember that_ I_ am the mistress of the art. And when it comes to control, you are well out of your league." she said, walking past Anthea.

The PA turned to watch her go. "I'll keep that in mind." she called after her.

Irene paused and turned, lips pursed and playful. "You should." She turned back around and continued walking. "Keep me in mind. Always."


	58. Chapter 56

Chapter Fifty Six

They were in a hotel room in Switzerland when Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Of course you couldn't start with Paris." he said frankly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Lestrade blinked and dropped his bag by the door. "Excuse me?"

"Strongholds." Sherlock said as if that provided all the information Lestrade needed.

Lestrade continued to hold his blank stare.

Sherlock deflated with a roll of his eyes. "I haven't been idle while my brother held Moriarty in a cell somewhere dark and dreary."

Lestrade startled.

"Yes Lestrade, despite my brother's best attempts at keeping me in the dark, I do know about his little 'talks' with Moriarty." Sherlock said spitefully. "Moriarty's got at least eight main strongholds scattered across the globe. The closest to Home being stationed in Paris. But, as I've said, it's too close to home. I was hoping to snap up a few bases before news of Moriarty's death started spreading, while I've still got the upper hand."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Lestrade snapped. "You need to be quiet and keep your head down if you don't want it getting shot off! What's all this talk about invading Moriarty's organization?"

"Why did you think I came with you?" Sherlock asked him.

"I don't know, maybe it was because your brother told you to stick with me until this all blows over?" Lestrade huffed.

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows and smirked in that infuriating way that made people feel like idiots. "Oh Lestrade, you don't really think I'd assume you're working with Mycroft?"

If Lestrade's heart skipped a beat, it didn't show. "Sorry, you lost me completely."

"You're ex-MI5. Freelance intelligence. Favoring the more unsavory side of clientele for the past eight years. And you have problems with persons of authority." Sherlock rattled off the top of his head. "You wouldn't touch someone like my brother with a ten-foot-pole, must less 'associate' with him without an ulterior motive."

Sherlock tried on a pair of sunglasses he had picked up in a souvenir shop at the airport and regarded himself in a mirror set into the wall. "It wasn't much of a stretch to link you and Moriarty together once I saw Kitty Riley's transcripts."

"You never said anything." Lestrade said suddenly, quietly. Dangerously. "All this time, I acted the harmless fool and you never said anything."

Sherlock paused, took his sunglasses off and turned around to face him. "No, I did not." he replied frankly.

A muscle in Lestrade's jaw worked. "Why?"

Sherlock fidgeted and looked away. "Because that would've blown your cover." he said.

Lestrade huffed out a laugh. "Mycroft always knew I worked with Moriarty."

"With me." Sherlock corrected him. "And John."

Lestrade raised his eyes to look at the younger man, silently requesting further explanation.

"You agreed to work for Mycroft in keeping me out of trouble." Sherlock said. "But would you have stayed if you knew John and I knew who you worked with?"

"Nevermind that, I fail to see why you would go through lengths to keep me in London." Lestrade frowned. "As you say, you knew who I worked with."

"I wouldn't... normally." Sherlock responded unsurely and Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"Why is this situation any different?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nevermind that for now, let's focus on the case-..."

"There is no case!" Lestrade retorted. "You're on holiday, Sherlock!"

Sherlock smirked at him. "Oh please, Lestrade, you didn't bring me here for the chocolates."

"And tell me why you think I brought you here?" Lestrade asked back testily.

"Because Switzerland is a powerhouse of Security and Intelligence. Anything, or anyone of importance would have to touch and leave an imprint sometime. Switzerland is such an efficient country, they probably have everything saved and categorized into neat little files for me to get my hands on. If I were Moriarty and I wanted to start an organization, I would probably start here."

"Sherlock..."

"You're going to ask how I knew you were going rogue in shipping me out of England." Sherlock rambled on. "I was watching our backs and we weren't being followed."

"That's the thing about disappearing." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You're not supposed to be followed."

"Mycroft would never let me out of his sight." Sherlock returned his attention to his reflection in the mirror and straightened himself, smoothing the travel wrinkles out of his shirt.

"So if you knew I wasn't following Mycroft's orders, why come with me at all?" Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock met his gaze in the mirror and smiled cheerfully. "Because Mycroft would never let me out of his sight." he repeated remindingly. "I needed a little space to move, _untethered_ as it were."

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut. "You just died in front of John!"

"I'm going to come back." Sherlock told him, shrugging.

"Before, or after John does something stupid?" Lestrade asked him. "More importantly: before or after Mycroft rips apart the earth looking for you, because he is. And Moriarty's people are going to notice. And they're going to put two and two together."

"He won't." Sherlock nodded at his reflection decisively. "I'll talk to my brother... no wait, you talk to him." he said, aside.

"What? No!" Lestrade exclaimed with an incredulous laugh. "_Nooo_, bad idea, Sherlock."

"Email him, or something. Text."

"Not going to happen, you do it yourself."

"Why? He'll listen to you. He always does."

"Yeah no, you're forgetting that this is the first time I've kidnapped his brother." Lestrade groused.

There was a brief stretch of silence.

"Talk to Irene." Sherlock said decisively.

"Irene Adler is dead." Lestrade responded without missing a beat.

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow up at him with a slight smile as if to say 'Really? Who do you think I am?'.

Lestrade sagged and rolled his eyes. "_Fine._" he stalked off, fiddling with a burn phone. Then, he looked up. "In all seriousness, though, what are you going to do about John?"

"Hm?" Sherlock glanced at him sideways.

"John." Lestrade repeated flatly. "John Watson. Ex-military, doctor, part-time crime blogger, full-time flatmate... did I fail to mention he's also a friend of mine?"

Sherlock looked away and folded his hands under his chin.

"He needs to know you're alive." Lestrade continued. "He needs you to come back."

"He'll have you." Sherlock shrugged.

"I won't be enough." Lestrade responded frankly.

Sherlock turned and finally met his gaze.

"You have to be."


	59. Chapter 57

Chapter Fifty Seven

John sat on a secluded wooden bench in a park nearby Baker Street watching nothing, but vaguely catching glimpses of people gliding under his blank gaze.

Someone stopped on the edge of his vision and did not move.

It took John a solid second to realize that someone had sat down beside him. He turned his head. "Oh, for fuck's sake!" he groaned, bracing his hands on his knees before heavily pushing himself to his feet.

"You weren't answering your phone." Mycroft responded coolly, rubbing hypnotic circles on the smooth handle of his umbrella.

"Yeah, and I'll let you know, it was on purpose." John snapped, already turning to walk away.

"John." Mycroft called after him softly.

"No." John turned and stabbed his finger under Mycroft's nose. "No, no... seriously, stop talking. Now."

Mycroft briefly considered the offending digit poking into his personal space with a mild distaste before returning his gaze to John. "I only wished to extend my condolences." he said calmly.

John recoiled as if struck but covered it with a huff. "He was _your_ brother."

"Blood, does not necessarily make a strong friendship." Mycroft stated frankly as he also stood. "You have always been there for my brother, Doctor Watson."

"Occurs to me that it should've been your job." John cut in scathingly before letting out a sharp hiss at seeing Mycroft's briefly stricken look. "Sorry - Jesus, sorry!"

"You said nothing that was not true." Mycroft shook his head sadly. "But, if you should need anything..."

"Thanks, but that won't be necessary." John said quickly.

Both knew John hadn't gone back to work since Sherlock died. John had barely left 221b Baker Street for weeks.

"Yes well, if you should ever change your mind..."

"I'll step out under a street camera with a picket." John finished.

Mycroft let out a small laugh. "Look after yourself, John." he said.

John didn't reply. And Mycroft didn't expect him to.

Both just nodded curtly and walked away.

* * *

><p>"We can't stay long." Lestrade told Sherlock one day when he returned from talking to an informant.<p>

"Why?" Sherlock looked up at him from his spot on the sofa. "What happened?"

Lestrade spread his arms, palms upturned helplessly. "I exist." he said flatly. "I'm kind of wanted in several countries - Switzerland being one of them - and I just texted Irene Adler. Someone's going to come knocking."

"I'm not done here." Sherlock hoisted himself upright and pointed at the wall opposite him.

It had been covered with notes and blurred pictures.

"Well, I am." Lestrade huffed. "We have to keep moving."

"You and your spying ways." Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes. "We've moved hotels three times in two weeks."

"And now we're going to move again." Lestrade told him patiently. "I'm thinking Berlin."

Sherlock's eyes popped open. "I'm not done with Switzerland." he snapped. "There are at least three separate strings of criminal cartels that are connected with Moriarty. It's his organization's blood veins. Sever them now and it'll cripple them for months."

"So sever them!" Lestrade huffed impatiently.

"Oh Lestrade, it's not that simple." Sherlock rubbed his temples. "You're comparing a surgical operation with bludgeoning an opponent. This takes time. Finesse."

"It's not a bloody oil painting, Sherlock!" Lestrade groused, crossing his arms. "We don't have time for that!"

"No, _you_ don't have time for that." Sherlock responded calmly.

"What?"

"You're a wanted man. I'm dead." Sherlock leveled him a shrewd look. "You go to Berlin. Lead Mycroft on. I'll stay here. They won't be looking for me."

"I'm not leaving you alone." Lestrade growled.

"I can handle myself."

"I can't trust you to." Lestrade shrugged frankly.

Sherlock scowled at him.

"I was your glorified babysitter for more than five years." Lestrade deadpanned back. "I know what I'm talking about."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine!"

"Pack your bags." Lestrade told him.

"No." Sherlock huffed. Lestrade sent him an impatient look. "You said you texted Irene Adler."

"So?"

"So, when someone comes knocking, I suspect it will be her." Sherlock nodded to himself decisively. "She has contacts and knows how to stay hidden."

"She's also... with Anthea." Lestrade told him.

"With-...? _Oh_." Sherlock grimaced and shook his head. "Whatever, it's better that way. Mycroft will know my status and what I am accomplishing without having to send his personal army to find that out."

"I thought your objective was to stay hidden from Mycroft." Lestrade frowned.

"Not hidden. Just away." Sherlock sniffed. "He has the habit of trying to envelope me in bubble wrap."

"I think he has a good idea about the bubble wrap - you died." Lestrade reminded, deadpan. "John thinks you're dead. Hell, Mycroft - of all people - tried to check in on him the other day!"

Sherlock looked at him quickly.

"Yes, Sherlock. I still have friends in London who keep me posted on the situation. Situation being John utterly crushed by his flatmate's death." Lestrade planted his hands on his hips and sighed. "Go home to your brother, tell John you're alive, and then come back to pick up where you left off."

"And in that time, Moriarty's organization will have had all the time to burrow deep underground until the storm blows over." Sherlock mused dryly.

"And you think this is more important?" Lestrade asked him. "Moriarty's organization won't be going anywhere."

"And that's the problem, don't you see?" Sherlock rubbed his temples with a heavy sigh.

"Yes. But John's condition might be time sensitive, I'm sure you see that as well." Lestrade shot right back. "I mean, he's a brave man - braver than I've ever seen - but everyone's got their limits."

"You should've seen him." Sherlock cut in with a tone so soft that it startled Lestrade into silence. "When Moriarty first crawled out onto the gameboard."

Lestrade shifted and leaned his hip on a table, waiting for his friend to continue.

"'There are human lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives - just so I know, do you care about that at all?'" Sherlock recited mechanically. Almost clinical in his intonation. Detached.

"John said that to you?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. He was rather angry." Sherlock responded. "He has an inherent righteousness in him, he couldn't run away from an injustice without setting it right. He's a doctor, after all. He didn't run from Moriarty and look where that got him: kidnapped, nearly blown up, and threatened with assassination. Imagine what would happen if he had to face down ten sub-Moriartys. Twenty? A hundred?"

Lestrade considered his friend for a brief moment before letting out a quiet noise of understanding. "Oh."

"I will always chase a riddle like a hound on a scent, and John is pathetically weak to the temptation of action." Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin.

"If you can't stop him from chasing monsters, the least you can do is to eradicate the worst of them before he gets there." Lestrade hummed. "Sherlock Holmes, slaying dragons."

"I've said it to John, and I'll repeat it for you." Sherlock said grumpily. "Don't make people into heroes."

"'Heroes don't exist, and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.'" Lestrade smirked.

Sherlock glared at him.

"John needed a drink after that case." Lestrade chuckled. "Thank me for dragging him back to Baker Street after this is all over." He pushed off the table he had been leaning against and grabbed his jacket, throwing it over his shoulder as he picked up his bag. "But, if it means anything... I think you're just hero enough."

He gave a last smile and a wave before leaving the hotel and catching the first train outbound.


	60. Chapter 58

Chapter Fifty Eight

There were six people sitting in the Seattle cafe. It was seven in the afternoon and everybody was decently minding their own business.

Well, almost everybody.

"Hi." Lestrade looked up from his coffee and newspaper and smiled at the pretty blonde that stood over him.

"Hello." he responded politely.

"Is this seat taken?" The woman smiled flirtatiously, curling a finger through the tips of her golden hair.

"No." Lestrade replied honestly. "But I'm sure there are plenty other unoccupied seats."

The woman smiled sweetly at him and sat anyway.

"Okay. Make yourself comfortable, I guess." Lestrade folded his newspaper in half on the table.

"I will." There was a show of perfect teeth. "My friends call me Kate."

"Hello, Ka-..."

"But we're not friends, so you can call me Katherine."

Lestrade grimaced. "Your Irene's Kate." he deduced.

"Well, that would imply an ownership being involved, and there isn't." Kate sighed breezily. "I belong to nobody."

"Alright." Lestrade shrugged. "So what, are we going to have coffee and pleasant conversation, or did you have a more important reason for tracking me down to Seattle?"

"I know you're here to meet a man marked out by Sherlock Holmes as a prominent member of Moriarty's organization." She said. "I am here to collect the fruit of my... labour."

Lestrade's eyebrow rose. "I will refrain from commenting." he said wisely.

Five minutes later, a man walked in. Five seconds after he had done so, he laid eyes on the couple sitting near the back of the cafe.

He turned and ran.

Lestrade's eyebrows jumped into his hairline as he jumped up. "Is he running from me, or you?"

Kate was already moving for the door with powerful strides, stilettos clicking sharply on the linoleum. "What do you think?" she grinned, a glint in her eye.

They caught up with the poor man in a back alley a block down from the cafe and Lestrade shoved him up against a brick wall, arm wrenched behind his back.

"Hey, hey, hey, Katie listen!" the man squeaked. "I know we had a deal, but I need a little more time-...!"

Lestrade leveled a look at Kate that would usually be reserved for Sherlock when he knew the detective was hiding a dubious experiment in his refrigerator.

"Oh don't worry." Kate smiled. "I'm willing to strike all debt from your record, I just need you to answer this nice man's questions, okay sweetie?"

Lestrade's expression immediately changed from suspicious and disapproving to shock. "What?" he whispered at her.

Kate gestured for him to just take it and run with it.

Lestrade shrugged, unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Okay, I'm going to ask you a few questions and you're going to answer them as concisely and quickly as you can..."

* * *

><p>An hour of interrogation, four hours of surveillance, and a brief five minute scuffle brought three more members of Moriarty's organization under lock-and-key, ensuring the integrity of Seattle's security from crime's clutches for a few more years.<p>

This also brought Lestrade and Kate to the sterilized lobby of a Seattle police station. Lestrade with a bloody tissue pressed to his nose, and Kate nursing a bruised knuckle.

"Well, well, lady and gentleman." An elderly African-American man in a charcoal grey suit walked up to them after overseeing the confinement of the four convicts newly brought in. "I see you've been busy."

"I don't have to give a statement, do I?" Lestrade drawled, his voice coming out a little stuffed due to the tissue in his nose.

"Lestrade, the State specifically _demanded_ you make no statements for the last eight years, we're not going to ask questions now." the man huffed fondly.

"It's good to see you again." Lestrade stood and shook the man's hand with his less bloodied hand. "You're growing a belly."

The man gave his slightly bulging midsection a satisfied pat. "Age has been kind enough to me, but I'm growing old. You, however..." he punched Lestrade's muscled stomach lightly. "... Haven't changed."

Lestrade laughed at him and turned to Kate. "This is Archie, CIA."

"Soon to be retired, I imagine." Archie huffed, stepping around Lestrade to shake Kate's hand. "Katherine Roberts. Internationally wanted serial blackmailer, I take it."

"You take it admirably." Kate responded with a slightly respectful tone, shaking his hand.

"Um..." Lestrade grimaced.

"Last time you were in my neck of the woods, you were chasing terrorism down with Irene Adler." Archie raised his eyebrow at Lestrade's sheepish look. "Like I said: you haven't changed."

"I'm just going to agree with Kate: you're taking this admirably." Lestrade smiled warily. "Thought you'd at least have an argument and a powerpoint presentation on why this is a very bad idea."

"I'm not your dad." Archie huffed. "Thank God for small mercies."

"Irene helped you catch terrorists?" Kate raised an eyebrow, curious.

"It was a long time ago." Lestrade smiled thinly. "We've had a falling out, since." And that was clearly the end of that.

"Shame." Archie shook his head. "She was quite the lady - despite her dubious character - I was hoping you'd finally settle."

Lestrade burst out laughing. "Neither of us were interested." he admitted.

"Oh?" Archie frowned at him.

"Come on, you've had your suspicions." Lestrade huffed. "About both of us."

"Ah. I see." Archie smiled with a look of a man who had finally found an answer to a very profound question. Then, he averted his gaze. "I am sorry for your loss."

"Hm?" Lestrade looked at him sideways. "Oh, Irene. Yeah."

Archie looked at him.

Lestrade regarded him with a small smile.

"Ah. I see." Archie responded again. "Well, I hope she is in a better place."

"She is." Kate told him confidently.

Archie's gaze swiveled from Kate to Lestrade, and back with a newfound look understanding.

"Oh."


	61. Chapter 59

Chapter Fifty Nine

"I hate this." Mycroft declared emphatically for the third time that morning. "What in God's name is keeping Sherlock?"

Anthea looked up from her phone. "Stubbornness." she replied simply. "He'll show up again once he's done with Moriarty's network."

"I don't see how you are so calm about this." Mycroft huffed, tapping the blunt tip of his pen erratically on the pad on the desk in front of him.

"I don't see why you're so worried." Anthea shot back coolly.

"My brother is out there, in a different country, chasing Moriarty's shadows with _Irene Adler_ while I sit here on my thumbs for fear that my movements overseas will alert others of my brother's survival." Mycroft said flatly. "My brother." he repeated as if he thought Anthea might not have caught it the first time around. "He can hardly keep himself alive in London, Heaven knows the chaos he's wreaking out there."

"I'm sure he's alright." Anthea told him soothingly.

"He'll be dead by the end of the month." Mycroft muttered to himself.

"Irene is with him, and I'm sure you've got friends in high places."

"Switzerland is an efficient country, it's no wonder they produce the most efficient assassins." Mycroft groaned. "Sherlock gets into fights with drugged-up bullies, it's no small stretch of imagination that he will get into fights overseas. This is a cause for concern."

"Hush now, and drink your tea." Anthea said.

"What tea?" Mycroft frowned.

"Well, the tea you are going out to get." Anthea responded, standing up. "I've got things handled here. Come on, Sir. Get your coat."

Mycroft sighed but did as she requested. "I am the boss here." he murmured to her, clearly upset.

"Yes, indeed." Anthea patted his arm sympathetically. The 'But you are also my friend' went unsaid.

But not unnoticed.

"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft sighed, deflating. "Please have the car called around. I will be going to the Diogenes Club."

"I will, Sir." Anthea nodded crisply.

* * *

><p>Mycroft watched London drift by lazily through his car window on his way to the Diogenes Club, his fingers tapping on the smooth curve of his umbrella handle.<p>

It had been months since Jim Moriarty's death and disappearance of Sherlock Holmes, and despite receiving regular reports on his status from the ever elusive Irene Adler, Mycroft was uneasy.

But perhaps, what made him most uneasy about the situation was how quiet Gregory Lestrade's movements were.

Certainly, there were brief mentions in Sherlock's reports, Lestrade in Seattle, Greece, and even once briefly in Peru where one of Moriarty's henchmen had tried to run and hide.

He had sold information here, killed a man there, and was rumored to be working closely with one of Irene Adler's trusted associates with seemingly no intention of returning.

Which - Mycroft was very firm about this - was not disappointing. A blessing, in fact.

But also very unnerving. Like finding the last fifty pages of a book missing. Was it a happy ending? A sad one? A disappointment? Satisfactory? Usually, when Mycroft terminated an association, it was either on good terms, professional terms, or - indeed - dead terms.

Lestrade was just. Gone.

One day he was there, standing closer to Mycroft than most his subordinates could boast of, chasing Sherlock around, fretting about the situation with Moriarty. And the next day, he captured Sebastian Moran, kidnapped Sherlock, and just fell off the face of the earth.

There was a history of texts that cut off after Lestrade asked if Mycroft wanted to stop by the Strangers Cafe for lunch. Come to think about it, Lestrade had also cut their last phonecall short when he had found Sherlock and Moriarty at St. Bart's. There was a half-scribbled recipe written hurriedly on scrap paper in Lestrade's second apartment, Mycroft had picked it up when he collected Ares. Lestrade had been planning on adding it to the menu at the Cafe. There was a list of needed groceries written on a whiteboard stuck to a refrigerator in the diner.

But Lestrade was no longer there. For all anybody else knew, he could've gotten into a car accident and died.

Lestrade had told Donovan and John that he was going back to France to be with his make-belief family after Sherlock's death. Molly had noticed his absence at Sherlock's funeral ceremony more than anybody else present had.

Lestrade had always had a soft spot for the girl.

Mycroft was certain that if Lestrade had an answering machine it would be filled by now with concerned calls from Donovan, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Stan. Perhaps a few drunk, desperate calls from John. One or two succinct messages from Anthea, cursing him out in the politest way possible.

And one - only one - call from Mycroft. A full ten second recording of Mycroft's silence before he had hung up.

Mycroft pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and stared at it contemplatively for a moment or two.

Suddenly, as if by divine design, it began ringing.

Caller ID: Lestrade

Mycroft promptly dropped his phone, feeling it numbly fall into his lap, still buzzing. He picked it up again with shaky hands and considered not answering. Declining.

He pressed 'Accept' and held the phone to his ear.

_"Mycroft."_ Mycroft nearly hung up right then and there, and he would have, if it had not been for the next words Lestrade said. _"I need you. You need to help John."_

There was an urgency in his voice that brokered no argument.

"What happened?" Mycroft forced out despite the lump in his throat.

_"John may-or-may-not-have taken a concerning number of sleeping pills, and I may-or-may-not-be in Virginia at this moment."_ Lestrade reported grimly. _"He seems to be doing fine so far, but just in case..."_ his voice trailed off.

"I am on my way." Mycroft responded before informing his driver on the change of plans. "Lestrade?"

_"Yeah?"_ Lestrade's voice called out through the phone's speaker sounding smaller than Mycroft had ever remembered hearing it.

Speaking of which, Mycroft had instinctively called out to Lestrade before even thinking about what he had planned to say. He had called Lestrade's phone before and had not found the words.

He could feel sweat begin to dampen the hollow of his palm against the smooth surface of his phone.

"John will be alright." he said at length. "This is not your fault."

There was a soft exhale on the other end and a brief silence._ "Thanks."_ Lestrade said finally. _"I needed to hear that."_

There was a click and ringtone a moment later.

* * *

><p>"'I need you'?" Kate smiled teasingly, arms crossed as she leaned in the doorway.<p>

Lestrade put his phone down. "Don't be a child. I said 'I need you to help John'." he grumbled.

"No you didn't." Kate responded frankly. "You said - and I quote - 'I need you. You need to help John.' Freudian slip, much?"

"You know what?" Lestrade rolled his eyes at her. "I need you to mind your own business."

"And I think you need you to admit that you're worried about your friend, you miss your Mr. Three-Piece-Suit, and you want to go home."

"Not going to happen." Lestrade snapped.

"Yes, going to happen." Kate smirked. "For John Watson, if not yourself."


	62. Chapter 60

Chapter Sixty

John opened his eyes to an off-white ceiling and feeling like he had just been run over by a truck. He winced as a scratchy groan escaped his throat.

"Oh, John!" that was Mrs. Hudson's voice. "Nurse?"

There were light, even footsteps. "Hullo there, John Watson, is it?" A woman appeared in John's vision, briefly blocking the light, her blonde hair cropped short, curling around her head like a golden halo.

"Hi." he replied weakly. "What happened?"

"You were brought in last night for a drug overdose, do you remember what happened?" the nurse asked him kindly.

"Drug-...?" John's brow furrowed. Then he realized what had happened and a cold ball of guilt dropped into his stomach, shame crept up to colour his cheeks. "Oh my God,_ Jesus_ - Mrs. Hudson..." he groaned, trying to sit up.

The nurse quickly reached for the controller by his bed and raised the back a little.

"I was-..." John's voice broke and he fought to continue. "I couldn't sleep. Had prescription pills... and a little to drink. Must've-... must've swallowed..." he rubbed his hands over his face. "Jesus, I'm sorry... it was an accident. I never meant-... _I'm so sorry..."_

Mrs. Hudson let out an anguished little sound and immediately moved to his side, wrapping her arms as best she could around the grieving man.

"I'm a doctor... I should know better." John moaned into her shoulder.

"You're in mourning." Mrs. Hudson whispered back, squeezing him harder. "_Nobody_ knows better."

"I'll come back at a later time." the nurse said softly.

"Thank you, Mary." Mrs. Hudson smiled gratefully.

* * *

><p>It was raining hard on the pavement as Lestrade found himself climbing out of a cab outside the Strangers Cafe. It was only a few months since he had been here last but it felt like a lifetime ago.<p>

He fished the key out of his pocket and let himself in.

He walked into the dark, empty diner and looked around with an uncomfortable feeling of nostalgia. He tossed his keys onto the counter by Mycroft's seat and absently dragged his finger through the dust that had gathered on the surface.

He wiped his dusty finger on his wet coat and turned the lights on. They flickered once, and then remained bright.

Lestrade gingerly approached his coffee machine before turning it on.

"You're back!" a voice called out suddenly, accompanied by the belated ringing of the doorbell.

Lestrade would forever deny jumping a mile high and letting out a startled yell. He whirled around, clutching his chest. "Mrs. Hathaway?"

Mrs. Hathaway stood silhouetted in the doorway, wet from the rain - poor woman must've hurried across the street without an umbrella - looking like she had seen a ghost.

"I saw the lights come on-..." she began, smiling apologetically.

"It's raining." Lestrade said hastily, walking over. "Come in. I'll get you a towel."

"Thanks, dear."

"It's a bit dusty in here, isn't it?" Lestrade called out as he disappeared into the kitchens to find a towel. "Sorry, I'll wipe some chairs down."

"Yes, we've missed you." Mrs. Hathaway called back, clasping her hands in front of her and turning around once, taking in the sad state of the diner. "Sometimes that friend of yours - the handsome one with manners - comes in. Never could ask what he's here for, has that air of a man who wants to be left alone."

Lestrade stepped quietly back into the room and handed her a towel. "Does he now?"

"Yes, did you two have a row?" Mrs. Hathaway asked as she watched Lestrade dust off the counter and a few chairs before enthusiastically taking on the dusty coffee machine. "Lestrade?"

"Um..." Lestrade fiddled with the little knobs and buttons on the coffee machine before turning back to her. "Kind of." He folded the duster on the counter and went to look for mugs.

He made them both coffee and they settled down to talk.

"So, what's going on with you two?" Mrs. Hathaway asked.

"I..." What could Lestrade say? 'It was just sex'? 'I'm actually a mercenary and I helped Jim Moriarty'? 'I kidnapped Sherlock'? "It's complicated." he settled lamely.

"I can see that." Mrs. Hathaway raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"We weren't..." Lestrade cut himself off. "Me and Mycroft, it wasn't... personal."

"Men have needs, I understand." Mrs. Hathaway leaned her head on her hand.

"It all got so... I don't know, out of hand." Lestrade scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "It went farther than I should have ever let it get."

"The question is: did you let it get that far because you wanted it to?" Mrs. Hathaway mused perceptively.

"Whether or not I wanted it to is beyond the point." Lestrade huffed.

"Who says?" Mrs. Hathaway took a sip of her coffee.

"I-... well..." Lestrade stammered. "There are extenuating circumstances."

The conversation was cut short by the ringing of the doorbell and Lestrade ducked, quick as lightning, behind the shield of his counter.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hathaway. I saw the light was on." he heard Mycroft speak slowly. Each syllable measured and sounded out with the utmost care.

Mrs. Hathaway sat still on her seat, unmoving.

Mycroft's gaze flicked from her, to the coffee machine, to the two steaming mugs on the counter.

"Where is he?" he demanded quietly.

"Hiding under the counter like a child." Mrs. Hathaway replied crisply as she stood up and straightened her skirts. "I think I'll leave you two boys to talk. I have a feeling you need it."

Lestrade pressed his eyes shut and let out a soft curse under his breath before standing up in one swift movement. "At least let me get you an umbrella." he said, picking up an old umbrella from a rack behind the counter and handing it to her.

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Hathaway took it and patted Lestrade's arm encouragingly before nodding at Mycroft. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Mrs. Hathaway." Mycroft nodded back at her politely although his eyes never wandered from Lestrade. "It was lovely seeing you."

Mrs. Hathaway lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching the two of them stare each other down before shaking her head and closing the door behind herself.

Mycroft crossed the room with large, purposeful strides. "Lestrade." he said once he was standing in front of the counter.

"Mycroft." Lestrade nodded back, clearing Mrs. Hathaway's mug. "Sit. I'll put on some coffee."

And wasn't this a familiar picture?


	63. Chapter 61

Chapter Sixty One

There was an oppressive silence hanging in the Strangers Cafe only disrupted by the light scrape of Mycroft's umbrella tip tracing patterns on the linoleum floor and the nervous drumming of Lestrade's fingers on the counter.

Mycroft halted his doodling on the floor and took a sip of his coffee. His face made an odd abortion of a smile and he placed his cup down, trying to frown.

Lestrade huffed and rolled his eyes. "You're a full-grown man, Mycroft, you can admit you missed my coffee." he teased.

Mycroft let out an empty chuckle and conceded. "I am indeed a full-grown man... and yes, I did miss your coffee."

He pointedly refrained from making eye contact. Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort.

"Thank you." Mycroft broke the new found silence. "For bringing John's situation to my attention."

"Thank you for picking up." Lestrade responded wryly. "I wasn't sure you would."

"I'm still not entirely sure why I did." Mycroft admitted.

"Well, whatever the reason..." Lestrade shrugged. "I'm glad you did it."

There was another prolonged stretch of silence. Lestrade could almost hear the synchronized ticking of their watches.

"How is John?" Lestrade asked.

"He will live." Mycroft replied hastily, eager to banish the quiet. "I was informed that it was a very unfortunate accident. He had had a bit too much to drink and-..."

"It happens." Lestrade nodded soberly.

Mycroft looked at him, wondering, but not asking. He had long since given up on questioning Lestrade about his previous lives.

"How are you, Mycroft?" Lestrade asked at length.

"I am well." Mycroft smiled thinly. "As well as can be, given the circumstances of my brother."

Lestrade leaned in, squinting. "Is that a grey hair I see?" he wondered aloud jokingly.

"That's rich, coming from you." Mycroft gestured to his own head of salt-and-pepper hair. "And my hair is also fine, thank you for your concern." he added, self-consciously combing a hand through the hairs that ran along his temple behind his ear.

Lestrade laughed.

"But... I think this is hardly the subject of discussion Mrs. Hathaway had in mind when she left us to our own devices." Mycroft pointed out.

"No, I guess not." Lestrade conceded - edgy - all of a sudden.

Mycroft had wondered, every day since the Fall, what would he say to Lestrade if they ever saw each other again. More importantly, what would he most want to hear from the man?

"Why did you run?" Mycroft asked softly.

Lestrade glanced at the door as if willing Mrs. Hathaway to return to save him from this private conversation. When no help would come, he shook his head. "I didn't run." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I was told to leave."

"With Sherlock?"

"Leave London, and take Sherlock with me, yes." Lestrade sighed.

"With, or without his consent?" Mycroft frowned.

"I was lucky Sherlock was eager to leave." Lestrade looked away, responding without directly answering the question.

Mycroft inhaled sharply through his nose, hands clenching around his coffee mug, imagining the consequences if Sherlock hadn't gone willingly.

"And these orders were from your... Employers?" Mycroft asked in a falsely calm and measured tone that would've fooled anyone who didn't know him.

"No." Lestrade shook his head. "It's a little more complicated than that."

"Then explain it to me." Mycroft demanded firmly.

"My employer - the one that Anthea has had contact with - I've mentioned that they've hired me to keep an eye on you and Sherlock." Lestrade reminded him. "They're a little different breed of employer. This other one's a wriggly fish, it stinks, and I don't like it."

Mycroft blinked at him blankly and tried to ignore the mental image of Lestrade being slapped in the face with a fish... no matter how pleasant the image made him feel.

"Well why don't you just terminate your contract, if this employer makes you uncomfortable?" Mycroft asked instead. "I assumed that's what the meaning of 'freelance' was."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "I wish it were that simple. These are the only two contracts I can't get out of. One, because I am a friend, and the other because I'm not. I just can't afford to make an enemy of-... my client." he said, just barely interrupting himself from naming names.

"Are you being threatened, Lestrade?" Mycroft asked him seriously. "I can help you."

"I'm a little past the point of being threatened, and it's a nice sentiment." Lestrade smiled back wincingly. "But if I'm going to get on my client's bad side I'm going to need backup that's a little more than - well - you." he said bitterly.

And that clear dismissal of Mycroft's power and skill stung with a venom that precious few were able to manage. Not that he let it show.

The silence that ensued was like a taut string pulled to the extent of breaking point as Mycroft stewed in his anger.

Then.

Lestrade twitched and shifted his weight, coughing, covering his mouth in that way he did when he was practically trying to physically hold back words from flying out of his mouth like he often did when he wanted to apologize but was stubbornly unwilling to be the first to give, and...

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft said flatly. "Are you trying to chase me off?"

"God fucking-...!" Lestrade snapped, throwing his hands up. "I try to do _one_ good thing here!"

"Lestrade, you are being ridiculous." Mycroft sighed. "You could've at least tried harder."

"_You're_ ridiculous." Lestrade huffed back. "I _just_ told you this fishy employer of mine wasn't exactly holding you and Sherlock in the best of interests, the first thing I want you to do is to turn and run in the other direction."

"Ah, running." Mycroft groaned with a put-upon expression. "My old nemesis."

"You're not leaving this alone, are you?" Lestrade frowned.

"What sort of diner is this, that ushers its customers out?" Mycroft clicked his tongue in disapproval. "How you keep this establishment standing, I will never understand."

"Fuck off." Lestrade growled, fighting down a small smile. "And on another note: where's my dog?"

"Is this the thanks I get for watching him while you were away?" Mycroft scoffed. "The manners on you."

"I miss Ares... and Cat." Lestrade sighed sadly. "Probably the hardest part about leaving London."

"I'm hurt." Mycroft drawled. "I'll bring Ares around. But mind you, he has a bed over at mine and will be very unhappy at being booted out."

"You bought him a bed." Lestrade said, uncomprehending. "A dog bed."

"Yes. He likes it near the fire." Mycroft expounded, as if it were the most natural thing on earth. "It's also blue."

Lestrade stared at him like he might've just grown two heads.


	64. Chapter 62

Chapter Sixty Two

"Hi boy!" Lestrade grinned, squatting down and bringing himself level with Ares when they reunited the next day at the diner. "Hey, did you miss me?"

Ares barked once - happily - and panted, large wet tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"I missed you!" Lestrade hugged the massive hound around the scruff and the dog beat the linoleum floor loudly in appreciation.

Anthea unlatched the leash from Ares's collar and let the canine rediscover the diner's interior for a few minutes.

Lestrade stood up. "Hi, Anthea."

_Slap!_

Lestrade sucked in a sharp breath when he felt the skin on his cheek tear on some accessory Anthea wore.

"Ow!" Lestrade blinked hard. "Watch the rings!"

"Right. Sorry." Anthea twisted the ring off her finger.

And then punched him.

Now there were knuckles causing fours sorts of pains on Lestrade's face.

Lestrade blew out a long, heavy breath before finally recovering from the blow. "Alright." he said. "I deserved every bit of that."

"If I gave you everything you deserved, you'd be on your way to the hospital." Anthea responded, clinically examining her hand. "As it so happens, I'm trying on a new shade of mercy."

Lestrade twitched and his inner thoughts ran along the lines of **_'deflect - smile - laugh - joke -...' _**Shrug with that Devil-may-care expression. The usual song and dance.

Instead, he rounded the counter to duck below and look for his first aid kit.

"What, no quip?" Anthea raised and eyebrow and absently follows.

Lestrade reemerged and placed his kit on the counter. "I deserved every bit of that." he repeated.

Anthea considered that for a moment before taking and seat to let him treat her hand. "Don't think you're off the hook, though." she grumbled.

"I missed you too." Lestrade smiled back. "What else did I miss?"

"Donovan and Anderson broke up." Anthea began.

"What?" Lestrade scrunched his face up. "Anderson was that... forensics fellow, wasn't it?"

"Married, forensic, Anderson." Anthea reminded.

"Did the wife finally lay down the law?" Lestrade chuckled.

"No, Anderson dropped a bunch of raisins on the floor and didn't clean up after himself." Anthea grimaced. "Had to take poor Cat to the vet because raisins and cats don't do very well together." She shook her head. "Heard Donovan tearing into Anderson on the way home, two months later, you can still hear the echoes."

"Ah..." Lestrade grimaced. "Poor Cat. I'll swing by later."

"She'll be happy to see you." Anthea grinned. "But if you're thinking you'll readopt her, you've got another thing coming because Donovan's going to fight you for her. She's on her way to becoming a very accomplished cat lady and Hell if she doesn't love where this is headed."

Lestrade laughed and held his hands up. "And I'm not going to tread on her happiness."

"You better not." Anthea huffed. "The last few months have been tough on Donovan."

Lestrade immediately sobered up. "Is she okay?"

"She hasn't been fired, or even demoted following the whole Sherlock fiasco." Anthea shrugged. "But some people in the workplace have the opinion that she should've been."

Lestrade pressed his lips together and breathed deeply. "I see."

"Don't worry, all that's really happened is that she's expanded her expletive vocabulary." Anthea smiled proudly. "So I'll stop you planning murder right there."

"Cheers." Lestrade responded as he sliced off a piece of layer cheesecake for her.

Anthea gratefully accepted and made a small pleased sound around her first forkful. "Oh I have missed this." she sighed happily.

Lestrade chewed on a mouthful himself and grunted. "Mm. I am good." he nodded satisfactorily to himself. "How are Mrs. Hudson and John?"

"Not out of the woods yet." Anthea frowned. "I mean, you're the one who informed us on the hiccup in John's recovery. I thought Mrs. Hudson was going to have an emotional breakdown, thinking she'd lost both her boys."

Lestrade pushed aside his dessert and let out a soft groan, rubbing his hands over his face miserably. "Oh my God..."

"Hey, you didn't twist Sherlock's arm to get him to leave." Anthea reminded him. "And you don't have him chained up somewhere. He can come back whenever he wants to... or when it's necessary."

"I guess..." Lestrade sighed, then had the audacity to wink at her. "And how do you know I haven't got Sherlock chained-..."

"I asked Irene." Anthea gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"You gotta love that I even ask." Lestrade groaned. "And how is the lady friend?"

"I love that you even ask." Anthea shot back with a raised eyebrow and impish look.

"Oh, gross!" Lestrade retched theatrically. "I'm calling that too much information."

"And how is Kate?" Anthea asked.

"Uh..." Lestrade made a face. "She is."

"She would be." Anthea smirked.

"You know her?" Lestrade asked her curiously.

"I've met her once or twice." Anthea shrugged. "But I've heard enough from various sources to feel like I've known her for forever."

"Can't imagine how meeting her went." Lestrade grimaced sympathetically.

"Yes, she was incredibly upset." Anthea sighed. "Couldn't forgive the fact that Irene never invited her."

Lestrade opened his mouth. Then, he thought better of it and closed it with a snap. He directed a solemn stare at his friend. "Oh no." he said. "This is it. This is how it ends. It's the rise of the lesbians."

"Go on." Anthea smiled serenely. "Tell the world. They'll never believe you. Not until it's too late."

Lestrade let out a low chuckle.

"How is Sherlock, though?" he asked at length.

Anthea blinked once and pressed her lips into a hard line. "Hasn't slept in a week and shot up last Wednesday."

Lestrade's eyes fell shut and he dropped his head in his hands. "Oh my God. You'd think, being the catalyst of this whole fiasco, he'd-..."

But before Lestrade could continue any further with his rebuke, the front door opened and a man in a balaclava stepped in, semi-automatic hung securely from hip-level.

Anthea vaulted over the counter without a second thought mere moments before the diner exploded with noise and splinters.

"Fuck off!" Anthea heard Lestrade yell as he ducked, covering his head with his hands. "Home base! You can't shoot me in London!"

"I don't think those rules apply to real life!" Anthea shouted back at him.

Moments after the man opened fire, he stopped.

Or, more realistically, ran out of bullets.

Anthea's and Lestrade's gazes met.

Anthea pulled out a small pistol the size of her palm from her purse and Lestrade dug out a standard duty handgun from the cupboard under his counter.

But by the time they peered out from under the counter the man had made his retreat.

Lestrade let out an explosive sigh and cursed under his breath as Anthea exhaled unhappily through her nose and both sagged against the now pockmarked piece of furniture.

The PA looked at the chef.

"You are the worst boyfriend, ever." she stated firmly.


	65. Chapter 63

Chapter Sixty Three

Lestrade was sweeping up splinters and glass shards, Anthea and Mrs. Hathaway gingerly picking debris out of the PA's hair, by the time Mycroft arrived on the scene.

"What happened?" he asked immediately.

Anthea gently but firmly batted Mrs. Hathaway's hands away from herself. "Shootout." she replied simply.

Mycroft look at Lestrade.

"Shootout." Lestrade parroted helplessly, stopping and leaning on his broom.

"Lestrade." Mycroft glowered. "Explain. Now."

Lestrade held up the hand that wasn't holding the broom in a placating gesture. "I really do not know, Mycroft." he said. "I'm wanted in several countries, it's not unusual for people to come looking for me with less than friendly intentions."

Mrs. Hathaway leveled him a narrow-eyed look. "Young man."

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hathaway!" Lestrade squeaked. "Look, this whole business with-..." he trailed off meaningfully, turning back to Mycroft. "It's bound to ruffle some feathers."

"Maybe you ruffled the wrong ones." Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"Well _somebody_ told me to ruffle those feathers." Lestrade snapped, crossing his arms. "I don't just ruffle feathers for the sneezes!"

"I'm sending slugs over to ballistics now." Anthea put in crisply, fingers flying across her phone. "They should have a lead within the next few hours."

"Lestrade, did you break your spine or is that a gun on your back?" Mrs. Hathaway asked seriously, staring at the slight protrusion under Lestrade's shirt.

"Horrible accident." Lestrade lied and didn't even attempt to adjust the gun wedged into the waistband of his trousers. "Took a nasty turn circa '83."

"I'm learning more and more about you every day." Mrs. Hathaway frowned at him, clearly believing nothing. "Honestly! Carrying a gun around, being a wanted man!"

"I know, you raised me better." Lestrade joked.

"Sure I tried, but did you listen?" Mrs. Hathaway shot back, hands on her hips.

"No." Lestrade whispered meekly.

"No. Now sit down and talk to me." Mrs. Hathaway demanded in that maternal way that was impossible to disobey.

Lestrade plopped down onto a stool. "I'm an ex-MI6 agent, currently freelance mercenary, hired to keep an eye on the Holmeses, and I'm very good at what I do but that tends to piss alot of people off. And then they try to kill me." he recited concisely and offered a sympathetic smile before getting back up and resuming his duties of cleaning up his diner.

Mrs. Hathaway had that pinched look only a mother could have in regards to a particularly troublesome child and pressed her mouth into a thin line.

Mycroft patted her on the shoulder sympathetically.

Mrs. Hathaway snapped her head around to stare at him, a calculating look on her face before pointing to the vacated stool in front of her with an expression that demanded appropriate obedience.

Mycroft grimaced and sat down, barely planting himself on the edge of the seat.

"I'm a high-ranking government official, control centre for most government actions and decisions, freelance consultant for the Military Intelligences of several Nations, and currently failing case-handler for Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft rattled off and quickly stood as if the stool had burned him.

Mrs. Hathaway had been growing paler and paler by the second since Lestrade had reintroduced himself to her. She turned weakly to Anthea.

Anthea sat down without having to be prompted.

"My name's not really Anthea, but I am Mycroft's PA. Considering what you now know of his occupation, you may imagine whatever duties being his personal assistant consists of. And I have prosopagnosia."

"Proso-...?" Mrs. Hathaway furrowed her eyebrows.

"I've known you for years but I couldn't pick you out in a lineup if my life depended on it." Anthea explained reluctantly. "It's a brain thing that I was born with. I can't recognize faces."

A look of realization crept over Mrs. Hathaway's face and she quickly gathered Anthea in for a hug. "Oh you poor dear!" She looked over Anthea's shoulder to the two men fidgeting nervously behind the PA. "You three poor, troublemakers."

"Is... is she going to cry?" Lestrade whispered under his breath.

"I think so." Mycroft replied softly, looking just as uncomfortable.

And she did.

Lestrade put his broom down and gingerly edged over, piling himself onto the hug. "Shh, don't cry." he begged weakly. "Please don't cry, Mrs. Hathaway."

Heedless of his pleas, the woman bawled unabashedly.

Anthea, careening toward her physical touch limits, sent a look over her shoulder to Mycroft for help.

Mycroft worried his bottom lip between his teeth and advanced warily. "There, there, Mrs. Hathaway." he offered lamely.

Anthea's look of exasperation could've scorched deserts.

Mycroft inwardly sighed and laid a hand softly on Mrs. Hathaway's shoulder. "We are all very sorry for our deception." he said slowly. "I think I may speak for all of us when I say that we enjoyed none of it. Please understand."

"You lot..." Mrs. Hathaway sniffled. "I've known you for years without really knowing anything, haven't I?"

"That's not true." Lestrade looked honestly stricken. "You can't think that." Mrs. Hathaway blinked at him through tears. "We didn't tell you alot about ourselves, but you knew the best of us, really."

Then, Anthea's phone buzzed and the PA gently pulled away. "The forensics are back on the slugs we sent." she said quietly, hesitant.

"Mrs. Hathaway-..." Lestrade began but Mrs. Hathaway's eyes hardened at the thought of the people who shot at her troublemakers and she gripped the arm Lestrade had wrapped around her with one hand, and Mycroft's hand on her shoulder with the other.

Mycroft stared at he touch for a moment before turning back to Anthea and nodding curtly.

Anthea nodded back and continued. "The bullet came from a semi-automatic registered to an assassin named Anton Yekovich, ex-Russian Bratva torpedo."

"Wasn't he one of the ones who moved to Baker Street, you know-... before." Lestrade made vague gestures.

"Yes, I believe so." Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. "He is one of Moriarty's."

"Moriarty?" Mrs. Hathaway echoed. "Dear God, what about John? And Mrs. Hudson? Are they in danger?"

"Considering that he shot up the Strangers Cafe right after Lestrade returns suggests exactly who the target was." Anthea pointed out. "But I will strengthen security on John and Mrs. Hudson all the same."

"Please do." Mycroft nodded at her. Then, he turned to Lestrade, eyebrow raised, asking a silent question.

"I'll check in with our elusive friend." Lestrade said, meaning Sherlock. "He must be closer to kicking a hornet's nest than I thought. I'll have a good long talk with him, find out exactly what we're getting into considering I'm the one that's doing all the vicious kicking... and getting the backlash."

"He's in Berlin, at the moment." Anthea informed them.

"Then, I better get packing." Lestrade sighed. "I'll check in with John before I leave, is there any update on the... situation?"

"He's..." Anthea frowned and then shook her head. "He's not doing any better. He's had a rude wake up call, but he's struggling."

Lestrade sighed sadly but said nothing.


End file.
